


Setback; Recovery

by werebear (rhien), werebear



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Empathy Bonds, M/M, Telepathy, terrible communication and attendant issues of mildly dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-23 13:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14935421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhien/pseuds/werebear, https://archiveofourown.org/users/werebear/pseuds/werebear
Summary: April 29, 2011 —Still suffering from a concussion sustained in January, Sidney Crosby is bitten and ‘turned’ by a rogue vampire.May 2011 —“Makes sense, Sid,” Geno said, firmly. “So. Bite me.”“You,” Sid said, “are out of your mind.”





	Setback; Recovery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sparcck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcck/gifts).



> For Sparcck! Your prompts were fantastic—so many great options. This took a bit of a turn and also turned out way longer than expected but *shrug emoji*; I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Set in spring/summer 2011. Departures from canon:  
> \- AU where Sid moved into his own house in late 2010. He also recently, reluctantly, acquired a smartphone.  
> \- In this universe, the “treat yo self” episode of Parks and Rec aired some time in early 2011, rather than October.  
> \- Both the 2011 summer schedule and the presence of various people in Pittsburgh are _entirely_ inaccurate, because story reasons.  
>  \- None of this should be considered good concussion/TBI protocol, not even for vampires.
> 
> Thankyouthankyouthankyou to [CloudCover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyForecast/pseuds/CloudCover) (and thank you for the header!) and [sevenfists](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists) for continual support and encouragement in this, my first fic in the fandom! and to [Deastar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deastar/pseuds/Deastar) for a lightning-fast last read-through and “dialect” help.  
> Specialest thanks to [SpiritsFlame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritsFlame/pseuds/SpiritsFlame) for continued reading and enthusiasm in a new-to-you fandom. <3  
> Extra specialest thanks go to [standalone,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/standalone/pseuds/standalone) for going above and beyond in a fandom not even her own. This fic is at LEAST 20% better because of your questions, comments, and support, friend.

****

 

**SPRING 2011**

 

April 29, 2011 — PITTSBURGH (AP) — Young NHL star Sidney Crosby, still suffering from a concussion sustained in January, was attacked and bitten last night by a rogue vampire. His condition has been reported as stable. His family have requested privacy as he continues to be evaluated.

 

April 30, 2011 — http://www.deadspin.com/breaking_news/ — **SIDNEY CROSBY** **‘TURNED’! CONFIRMED VAMPIRE!** _Anticipated backlash from fans and the public: will the Pens have to rethink the face of their franchise now that it has fangs? (And three reasons why they should.)_

 

May 14, 2011 — **Is Crosby** **’s career over?**

The double whammy of a serious concussion and a rogue vampire attack is nothing anyone could have seen coming.

Sidney Crosby, 23-year-old NHL center, and captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins, was attacked near a bar in Southside on the evening of April 28th by an unknown, rogue vampire. Crosby was ‘turned’ and abandoned, before being discovered in the early hours of the 29th and taken to a local hospital.

In recent years, the development of synthetic blood and of magical medications for “sun-sickness” have made it possible for vampires to join mainstream society to an extent that would have been unheard of in the past.

“Crosby isn’t even the first vampire in the league,” Roberta Martinelli, the NHL’s Liason on Supernatural Affairs, pointed out earlier this month. “Herb Gardiner was a vampire. Jaromir Jagr is a vampire. They’re not nearly as common in the NHL as weres and fae, of course, but there’s no reason this, in and of itself, should prevent Crosby from playing.”

Not everyone agrees, of course. In spite of the regulation standard wards and spells that allow supernatural players and standard humans to compete fairly on the ice, some insist that vampires have no place in professional hockey.

“I’ve said it before,” Don Cherry said in an interview last month, “hockey can be a bloody sport, and there’s no call for mixing that with vampires, for god’s sake. It’s a damn shame what’s happened to Crosby, but anyone should be able to see that it’s a bad idea.”

For now, the debate remains moot. “[Crosby] is still operating under concussion protocol at this time,” said Penguins general manager Ray Shero last week, “though the effects of turning complicate everything, of course.”

In a statement released last week by the Penguins organization, Crosby himself said: “Well, it’s a setback, sure, but I’ve had those before these last few months. I’ll keep working with the doctors on both situations, and we’ll see how it goes. I’m hoping to see more progress in the off season.”

 

##

 

**MAY 21st, 2011**

 

“Makes sense, Sid,” Geno said, firmly. “So. Bite me.”

In spite of the pain in his head, in spite of the jump and sudden knot in his stomach, Sid had to hold back a laugh. He started to open his mouth to talk about idioms, then saw, even in the faint light, that set to Geno’s mouth that meant he knew damn well what he’d just said, and he’d probably play innocent if you called him on it. Sid settled for rolling his eyes. “You—”

“Yes,” Geno agreed. “Me. Come on, Sid, is best.”

“You,” Sid said, “are out of your mind.”

 

It was a “bad head day,” as Geno had observed when he’d arrived this evening, take-out in hand. Lights dim all day, no reading, no TV, no video games, no working out, and Sid was bored out of his fucking skull. (Fucking _aching_ skull.)

Then Geno came over—a messenger bag over his shoulder, wearing a ridiculous old Steelers t-shirt with the neck ripped out—and brought dinner, even. The smell of the Thai food was incredible to Sid’s newly sensitive nose, almost enough to overpower the—other smells.

He could smell what people had been eating, of course, and crazy specific things about their deodorant or perfume or soap. Stuff about where they’d been recently, sometimes. He had already found, to his chagrin (he felt like a snoop), that he could smell sex, and arousal, and maybe sadness? Maybe other emotions, too, depending on how well he knew someone, and how much he was paying attention.

And he could definitely smell fear.

He wasn’t sure he was ever going to get used to this. To _people_ smelling so… weirdly fascinating. (He wasn’t using the word tantalizing. Nope.) And he wasn’t talking to anyone about it.

Honestly, Geno was the worst so far.

Because everyone had their own scents, beyond soap or food, and they were hard to explain. A lot of it was mostly association in his head, and some of them were pretty straight-forward—his mom smelled like lemon and vanilla, mostly. Some were less concrete: Flower smelled light, fresh as rain (maybe it was his fae blood?). Some were just odd: Kuni smelled like jam and a pillow fight. (A merciless pillow fight, that _he_ won.)

But Geno smelled like… it was confusing. He didn’t actually smell anything like bread, and yet somehow it was like being in a bakery—rich and warm and compelling. It made Sid feel like his mouth was about to start watering, like he was starving, _and also_ like the scent alone was nourishing, was enough. It was extremely confusing.

Maybe not as confusing as it should have been, considering how Sid had felt about Geno for, well, years now. It had been just a harmless hockey crush… and then they were teammates, and then friends, and now it was all a really inconvenient mess of emotions that he didn’t have time to think about. Not right now. (Maybe not ever.) 

So he sat on the couch in his nearly dark living room, and drank his mug of synthetic blood, and ate pad thai and beef pad phet, and graciously let Geno hog the extra spring rolls while he tried not to complain too much about his head.

And then, just as they were finishing their food, Geno said, “So, you have concussion long time now, yes?”

Sid looked over incredulously. Geno didn’t usually waste time with such stupidly obvious observations.

Everyone knew that, but Geno knew it better than most. They’d been hanging out at Sid’s place, his new-last-November place, since February—Mario and Nathalie had offered in January to let Sid move back in, and then offered again at the end of April, but he was set on making this work. He was twenty-three, he was old enough to live on his own for god’s sake. Even if he _had_ been “raised by hockey, like Mowgli and the wolves,” as Tanger liked to say. Even if lately he often felt weirdly young, off-kilter. Just a lot going on, maybe.

Anyway, he and Geno had hung out and commiserated regularly from February through most of April, Geno laid up after knee surgery, Sid with this fucking concussion that he just couldn’t seem to shake. It had become soothingly routine almost, sharing dinner, watching movies or playing Call of Duty on good days. One night they’d even fallen asleep on the couch together. Sid had woken up with his head on Geno’s shoulder, drooling embarrassingly, and so weirdly comfortable that it was, well, weird. He might have hurried to go start pancakes before Geno woke up.

But then Geno got busy, doing more rehab and training, and then Sid had had his… setback, and was in the hospital for a week, and then sequestered at home for two more. They’d texted, but this was only the second or third time he’d seen Geno in a month.

God, another month. And here he was, still fucking useless, and now Geno didn’t even have to use a cane anymore.

(And a concussion wasn’t all that was wrong with Sid now.) (As if a concussion wasn’t enough.)

Sid took a deep breath and tried to squash the jealousy. Not attractive, not helpful, not okay. Geno had worked hard on his knee recovery. And Sid was so sick of his own whining.

The doctors told him it was his job to get better, to hold back and take it easy on the bad days, and he knew it. He was cooperating. Even when he loathed every second of it.

But then Geno said _that,_ and before Sid could even formulate a reply, he followed it up with, “I’m think, maybe I help, you bite me, makes sense,” and Sid couldn’t think at all.

 

“You,” Sid said, “are out of your mind.”

“Mind is just fine. You say, Sid,” Geno was saying now. “Want try ‘alternative treatments.’”

“I was thinking, like, that chiropractic neurology thing, not—” Sid let his head fall back against the cushion. He defied anyone to just _sit up straight_ in the face of madness like this. “G, I don’t think—there’s no proof that human blood has some kind of magical healing properties.” He made himself continue. “Even for vampires.”

Geno looked at him incredulously. “What proof? Everyone know—”

“What do you even mean, ‘everyone’—”

“In Russia, everyone know this. North American scientists have no studies, doesn’t mean not true.”

Sid put his arm over his eyes. “Geno, there are a million stupid myths about vampires, why should this one be any more true than, than changing into a fucking bat? Or immortality? Or the stupid garlic thing?”

Geno snorted. “This not _movie,_ Sid, come on.”

“How would you even—” Sid didn’t know where to start. “This isn’t weird for you? This whole discussion?”

Geno hesitated. “I’m date vampire before,” he said finally, slowly.

There was more in those four words than Sid could parse, honestly. “You have? Who?” Oh, he probably shouldn’t have asked that. It was invasive, and people didn’t like being outed as vampires, and… But— _date?_

“Not important,” Geno said, shaking his head. (Of course. Geno was loyal to a fault, and Sid felt way too fond about that fact.)

It was probably Oksana, Sid thought. She was definitely gorgeous enough. That was a stupid thought, really. The first thing Tanger had done when he and a few of the guys had visited in the hospital was lean in close, peer intently at Sid’s face, and then say, “Guess the supernatural beauty thing is a bust, huh?” Nealsy had smacked him in the back of the head, but Sid had laughed, a little relieved. It was true, he looked about the same, a little paler, maybe a little skinnier than before, though he was hoping he’d be able to bulk back up if— _when_ he got to really train again. When he got to play. Anyway, the “supernatural beauty thing” was probably overblown, like most stories about vampires.

He hadn’t forgotten that _date_ word. Geno couldn’t possibly be saying—he didn’t _know_. About Sid. And Geno wasn’t—but would Sid have even heard about him dating anyone but women? Not likely. But this wasn’t—that wasn’t what Geno had meant. And Sid couldn’t think about relationships right now anyway. Not now. Maybe not—

Geno was talking again.

“Important thing, I know is fine, not big deal. Have done before.”

Geno was leaning forward on the other end of the couch, his dark eyes so earnest. That stupid shirt showed his whole throat, down past his collarbones, the two sides of his gold chain crossing them lightly, and Jesus, Sid’s head hurt. “I know you’re not telling me you’ve cured a concussion in a vampire before.”

He didn’t feel a leap of hope or anything, not like when he first woke up in the hospital and heard what had happened. It seemed just too cruel that even being turned into a vampire hadn’t been able to fix this.

Geno shook his head. “It’s not expect… magically fix everything. Of course not.”

Of course not. Were they ever going to be done talking now.

“But Sid. You vampire now, you have concussion _—_ ” Geno began.

“No _fucking kidding,_ G—”

“—so how you know what is normal, what is not normal?”

“I _can_ _’t_ ,” Sid hissed. “Nobody can, nobody knows shit, they don’t know if it’s ever going to get better, they don’t know how being a fucking newly turned vampire is interacting with it, if it’s making it worse, or better, or—” Sid bit down on his tongue. There was no protocol for this, no trajectory of recovery, and it was making him crazy.

It had made him crazy before, when it _was_ just the concussion. And now… It was like everything had changed, all at once, but then it turned out that maybe nothing really had.

Geno was shrugging, like Sid had made his point for him. “So. Won’t fix everything. But maybe help.”

“You don’t know that.”

“So? Is fine, we do science, try and see.”

Sid wanted to smack him. No, he wanted to _bite_ him, and that was the whole problem, wasn’t it.

“What about _you,_ ” Sid demanded. “What about…” Anemia? Diseases? God, Sid didn’t even _know._ “The team needs you, you can’t be out with some kind of blood loss exhaustion or something. You’re still recovering, and—”

“Am fine, Sid.”

“You can’t just…” How could Geno even consider this? How could _Sid_ even consider this? There was too much considering happening. “It’s not _okay_ to just—just—”

“Help teammate? Why not okay? Not okay help friend?”

Sid shook his head, muttering, “Am I, though?” If he were really a good friend, a good captain, surely he wouldn’t be even _thinking_... thinking about biting Geno, breaking his _skin_ , cutting into his, his _flesh_ , thinking about blood welling up—his mind recoiled. But his mouth was watering. His teeth might even be sharpening up already.

Fuck.

“Geno, what if—” He was almost choking, mind racing. _What if I_ hurt _you, you could die, I could just—_ It would be so easy. He wasn’t even hungry right now: they’d just finished dinner, his blood-stained mug was right there on the corner of the coffee table, but… but he could feel the pull of _want_ in his throat, in his belly. It was so… intense, distracting, consuming. He had never felt like this about anything that wasn’t hockey-related, and anyway, this was different, it was—

“It’s not _okay_ ,” he said, weakly.

“Sid.” Geno was watching him with an odd look on his face. “Sid, you talk to someone?”

“What?”

“At hospital, after—”

Sid shrugged. “They gave me numbers. Resources. A couple of brochures.”

“And?”

Sid didn’t really know what Geno was getting at, but he knew he didn’t want to _talk_ about… any of it. “I—listen, I’m still just—” _human_ , but that wasn’t true at all, was it. _Normal_ … not that either. “I’m still _me_ ,” he said, desperately. Then more softly, “I still want to be _me._ ” God, his head hurt.

Geno nodded, easily. “Yes.”

The easy way he accepted it made Sid look away and rub his hand over his face.

“If other teammate need—you do for him?” The instinctual _of course_ must’ve shown on his face, because Geno continued, “You do for me?”

“I—it’s still not—”

“Sid.” Geno slid closer, carefully. Their knees were just barely touching. “You say, you still you, yes?”

Sid nodded, slowly.

“So,” Geno shrugged. “I know Sid, he’s safe. I trust you.”

Sid had to close his eyes and swallow, and swallow, and swallow.

“Also,” Geno said, nonchalantly, “if it’s too much, I pinch, see?” And he did, hard, right above Sid’s knee. Sid yelped; it hurt like a bastard. “See? Is fine.”

Sid wasn’t convinced that would stop him if he really lost control… but Geno _was_ maybe six inches taller, definitely in better condition right now… but just because Sid hadn’t noticed any increased strength yet didn’t mean…

He was so tired; his head ached; Geno smelled so— And he had to try something new. Change something.

“Okay,” he said, finally. “Okay, but—carefully.”

“Of course,” Geno said.

“Yeah.” Sid paused, looking around. “So, uh, you want to do it now?”

Geno nodded. “Lean back, not hurt pretty head,” he said, over-sweetly, pressing Sid’s shoulder backwards, so that he was leaning back, head against the back of the couch.

Sid glared, and let him. “What are you—”

Geno knelt up on the couch next to Sid. His warmth was all around Sid, suddenly, almost tangible, like Geno’s arms in a celly, and Sid’s mouth was full of his scent, but Geno wasn’t actually touching him, just leaning in closer, tilting his head to the side.

“Geno, your knee—”

“Is fine, Sid, stop worrywart.”

“I’m not—” Sid snorted. Duper had taught Geno that term, and now he could not be stopped with it. “And not your neck, that’s…” _way too much, way too scary,_ “an awkward angle right here, isn’t it?”

Geno sat back, begrudgingly, then nodded. “Wrist?

“I—okay, I guess.”

“Rest head,” Geno said, firmly. “Here.” He tugged on Sid till he had him arranged, apparently to his liking: turned toward Geno, head and right shoulder leaning into the back of the couch, right leg folded under him so Geno could scoot closer and offer his wrist. Sid took it, tentatively, in both hands, the angle still a little awkward.

He was so _warm_. Sid was definitely colder than he used to be, that part wasn’t a myth.

He started to open his mouth, before he could completely lose his nerve.

“Wait. Not just chomp, Sid.” Chomp. Jesus. Geno’s eyes narrowed. “I think you not read brochures.”

“They didn’t have how-tos on _biting humans_ , Geno, come on.”

“Yeah, okay. So. You,” he gestured, “lick first, better.”

“Not just chomp, huh.”

Geno’s mouth quirked up. “Not just chomp.”

“All right.” Sid put out his tongue and drew it up the inside of Geno’s wrist. “I feel like a, a dog or something.”

Geno laughed. “Few more times.”

Sid tried again. He felt idiotic. “Are you just messing with me? What is even the point of this.”

Geno shook his head. “Venom in saliva,” he said. “Makes bite easier.”

 _Easier_. Sid felt himself freeze for a second. He didn’t really remember most of the attack, but he remembered… being grabbed from behind. He remembered pain. He still had faint scars on his neck and shoulder. “It does?” he asked, skeptically.

“If take time, do nice.” Geno bumped his shoulder. “Not just chomp.”

Sid shook his head, smiling a little, and licked again, slowly. God, he hoped this was true. If he was going to, to _indulge_ himself like this, the absolute least he could do was try to make it not painful.

It was still odd, short, flat-tongued licks against the soft skin of Geno’s inner wrist, but after a bit it started to feel almost hypnotic. The even strokes, the dim room, Geno’s steady breathing… Sid wasn’t sure he could exactly _hear_ Geno’s heartbeat, but he could definitely _sense_ it, feel it somehow, not just in the fingers holding his wrist. He felt weirdly soothed.

“Sid?”

He hummed absently in reply, and when had he closed his eyes, anyway.

“Sid, you ready?” Before Sid could ask, Geno clarified by tapping his own mouth and raising his eyebrows.

For just a second Sid thought it was an invitation to—but then—shit, yeah, his fangs were totally out now. “I, uh, yeah.”

Geno nodded. “Good, go on.” He pushed his wrist against Sid’s mouth, the skin tender and taut on his lips.

He didn’t know if he could really do this.

Geno cocked his head. “Have knife, can make cut myself.”

“Jesus, no.” Now he felt ridiculous. “Uh, any more, um, advice?” He didn’t want to bite into a big vein or something—or did he? Was he supposed to? He couldn’t look at Geno’s face.

“Not chomp,” Geno said, and Sid could hear the smile in his voice.

Sid snorted and… bit.

Too hard, he could tell right away, it felt off. His long canines sank in, but so did his others, a little, and it wasn’t right, and Geno jerked a little, made some kind of surprised sound, and Sid knew he should stop, check in, make sure, but oh _god_ , his mouth was filling up with warm liquid.

Too much, and he automatically sealed his lips around it, gulping. He made the most mortifying slurping sound but he couldn’t even care, because fucking hell, this was _incredible_. His brain was going to pieces, every corner that wanted to object—metallic, salty, it’s _blood_ , what are you _doing_ —being overwritten by a shocking, gut-level lurch of _want-good-want_. He gasped a little, still sucking, the breath from his nose skittering across the hair on the back of Geno’s wrist. Something in the back of his head seemed to stir, dark and predatory and hot ( _want-hunt-tear_ ), but he shoved it down and tried to steady his breathing, eased up his grip on Geno’s arm, and settled into a slow rhythm of drinking and breathing, his eyes drifting shut, his mind drifting softer and slower, losing track of time.

He realized his head didn’t hurt anymore.

He realized he was lapping softly at the bite.

He looked up and Geno was leaning sideways against the couch, in a mirrored position, his head lolling against the cushion, blinking slowly. His stupid mouth was doing that stupid thing, all lush and tempting, and Sid was _not_ thinking this. “Good,” Geno said, his voice soft and lazy. “Lick after good, too.”

Sid blinked slowly back. “Is it?” It had just sort of seemed like the thing to do.

“Helps heal.”

He winced at the thought, afraid to look at Geno’s wrist. “Sorry I, uh, maybe chomped a little.”

 Geno laughed. “Of course. Best blood, can’t help.” He must have seen Sid still frowning. “Is okay. Good heal. If take care, no scars, even.”

“Seriously?”

Geno nodded. Very softly, his other hand touched the side of Sid’s neck. Sid could barely feel it, but he flinched anyway, looking away. Geno was one of the few people who never seemed to feel sorry for him, and he didn’t need to see it now.

“Sid?”

Sid looked back up, meeting his eyes. “Hm?” Their faces weren’t that close but it still felt kind of intense. Geno’s eyes were dark brown, fucking gorgeous of course, and he was staring back. Sid felt something soft, like a current: a water-through-water sensation.

“Eyes,” Geno said, gesturing vaguely, still staring.

“What?”

“Eyes—” he did that English-is-stupid-and-I-can’t-remember-a-word frown, “glitter?”

Sid felt suddenly cold again. Was this some creepy vampire thing? Was he enthralling Geno without even meaning to? There hadn’t been much information about thrall in his folders. Only that it was rare? He didn’t think it was something all vampires did… and nobody could even agree on what the effects of it were. He looked away and sat up. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Geno sat up a little, too, and stretched. “Yes, yes, fine. Nice couch.”

“Yeah, hold on, I’ll just—” Sid went to the kitchen and brought Geno a glass of water, and stood there watching while he drank it.

He didn’t drink any himself, because… because he didn’t want to wash the taste out of his mouth yet. _How fucked up can you get, Sidney?_ he thought, despairing.

Geno didn’t seem to notice anything weird. He finished the water and asked, “How’s head?”

Oh. Sid blinked. “It feels better.” That was inadequate, and so was this, but— “Thanks, Geno. Really.”

Geno shrugged cheerfully, standing. “Is no problem. Do again soon, maybe help more with recovery.”

Sid tried to stamp down on the way his heart leapt at that thought. “Not _too_ soon.” Sid couldn’t remember how often you were allowed to give blood. He’d have to look it up.

Geno was collecting his bag and showed no sign of having heard. “No worries, Sid, glad to help.”

“Yeah.”

 

##

 

Sid went to bed early, only a little after Geno left. He made himself brush his teeth, deliberate and thorough. He lay down, shut off the light, and tried to think about the mint of the toothpaste and not… how Geno had tasted. His blood and his scent all around, thick in Sid’s throat, between his _teeth_ , god, he shouldn’t _dwell_ , he shouldn’t— He shifted to turn onto his side, and—oh. Oh. Well, shit.

They call it bloodlust for a reason, he told himself, defensively. And anyway, was this… was it because of the drinking, or just because it was Geno? Was there really a way for Sid to know which, for sure?

He didn’t touch his (fucking capricious) dick, not right now, but— It was almost nice to have something else to think about in the dark. Something unsettling and distracting but pleasant. Something that wasn’t vague, intrusive bursts of memory: a fruitless rush of adrenaline, a sense of helplessness, the scrape of pavement under his cheek and a phone light in his eyes when they found him…. He didn’t _remember,_ not really, but that didn’t stop him from jerking out of half-sleep sometimes, his no-longer-human heart racing.

Sid lay still and fell asleep, thinking about Geno’s smell, and eyes, and warmth, and his grin before a prank, and he wasn’t sure which part helped more.

 

##

 

Sid felt significantly better overall the next day. No headache, no nausea, no dizziness. There never seemed to be much rhyme or reason to his symptoms lately though, so maybe that didn’t mean anything.

He felt better than better, really. He slept a little late, but well. Restfully. He felt clearer, somehow. Sharper. His eyesight was the same as always, but he looked out the kitchen window while he drank a cup of coffee and felt like he could have counted every needle on the evergreens across the lawn.

There was a ding from his (new, needlessly complicated) phone; it was Geno. **_How_** ** _’s head?_**

 **Feels a lot better today** _,_ Sid had to admit.

**_)))))_ **

Sid couldn’t resist: **Maybe it** **’s just a coincidence though.**

There was a pause, and then: **_(((((_**

It was true, but he immediately felt a little guilty even joking about it. He started typing a reply, but before he could finish, Geno sent, **_so we do again soon. SCIENCE!! )))_**

 **Sure G** _,_ he finally sent.

It probably was coincidence. He hadn’t even drunk that much, had he? How was he supposed to know what was a lot? A little? Too much?

Maybe he’d really screwed up by opening this door at all. Though if he was really honest… it wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it at all, over the past few weeks, since waking up in the hospital. He’d had other things to focus on, and he’d tried _not_ to think about it, but… Just because now he knew what it felt like didn’t mean that he was suddenly any more (or less) of a monster than he had been before.

Nothing had changed except that he knew what real, fresh human blood tasted like. Geno’s blood.

He swallowed, hard. This, on top of his… stupid feelings. This had to be a terrible idea, right? He’d known that part forever. (Because they were teammates, because they were friends, because of the press, because what were the chances, honestly, that Geno would even— Because he couldn’t risk losing what they had, whatever that was.) 

But… god, he still _wanted_ … It was a confusion of wants now, though.

And Geno’d said “soon,” and…

It had been ten whole minutes, he suddenly, guiltily realized, and he hadn’t even asked: **You** **’re feeling okay, right?** he texted quickly.

Geno sent several thumbs up emojis.

 **Aren** **’t you supposed to wait six weeks between blood donations?** He cringed, and then cringed at his own cringing. It was for the best, he _should_ be trying to talk Geno out of this—

The phone rang.

“Hello?” Sid said, even though it said, right there, that it was Geno calling.

There was noise in the background: someone laughing, some kind of argument in Russian, and then a door closing, and quiet.

“Too much worry, Sid,” Geno said.

“Come on, G, of course I’m concerned,” Sid protested. This _was_ too much, and he wasn’t going to put Geno into danger for something that maybe wasn’t even a real _need_ , and— “It’s a totally reasonable amount of concern.”

“Not like I’m play right now,” Geno said.

“Well, me either. And the season’s over, anyway, and—”

“Is fine, Sid. Not important. I take potion, no problems.”

“A potion?”

“Yes. For blood things. I tell you, I do before, no problems.”

“Oh.” Sid hadn’t known there was anything like that out there.

“Yes. So can do whenever, not big deal, okay? Not worry.”

“Okay, I guess.” He’d have to look it up later. Not that he didn’t think he could take Geno’s word for it, but he was acting so off-hand about it, and… it was the responsible thing to do.

“Good.” There was a burst of muffled sound, and Geno shouted something, away from the phone, in Russian. “I go now, but you want I come over tonight?”

 _Tonight._ His stomach clenched with nerves and also excitement, but— “I’m over playing Risk with Austin and Alexa tonight.” If he still felt good, but he was hopeful; he’d already had to reschedule on them once.

Geno laughed. “Good, tell them I say beat you for me.” And then, over Sid’s half-hearted grumbling, “Tomorrow?”

This was probably a bad idea. “Yeah, okay.”

Sid got off the phone and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyelids. Okay. He could handle this. He’d stop by the store, he’d make dinner. Having his own kitchen was still novel enough to spark excitement at the thought. Or if he started to feel worse, he still had a lot of meals that his mom had frozen for him before she went home. It would be okay.

In the meantime, he needed to do some research.

 

##

 

When Geno came over the next night, Sid had kind of hoped he wouldn’t notice anything different in the kitchen, but of course he did.

“You like mangoes now?”

“Sure.” They were okay. Sid tried not to make a face, focusing on slicing the crusty bread he’d picked up last night on the way home from the Lemieux house.

“Really?” Geno picked one up from the kitchen island, and peered at it, unnecessarily dramatically. “I think you tell Kuni, mangoes ‘devil fruit.’”

“Oh come on, I never said that.”

Geno was grinning now, tossing one from hand to hand. Good thing Staalsy hasn’t taught him to juggle yet, Sid thought. “‘Everything mango! Too much mango!’”

Okay, he might have said something like that at one point last year, when they went out in L.A. and ended up eating at some fusion-Thai-Mexican-Italian-something or other place. “There was mango on the _pizza,_ Geno. It's unnatural.”

Widening his eyes, Geno brandished a mango in Sid’s direction. “Next thing, you say pineapple should not be on pizza.”

Sid, who honestly couldn’t have cared less, said, solemnly, “Yeah, I can’t approve.”

Geno clutched his chest. “Pineapple go with _Canadian bacon,_ Sid! How you call yourself true patriot son?”

“Hot fruit,” he said, hiding a smile. “It's just not right.”

“Now he diss apple pies, too.” Geno shook his head sadly. “America kick you out, Sid. Have to come to Russia with me.”

Sid finally let himself laugh for real. “Well, alright. If you think they'll have a degenerate like me.”

He worried for a second that that might sound more pathetic than he’d meant, but Geno was gesturing at the counter. “Still not explain why you have _twelve mangoes_ here, Sid. This vampire thing?” He ignored Sid’s snorting protests (“how would that work? Tropical vampires? Sounds a little sunny, don’t you think?”) and continued, “Vampire change tastes?”

 _Not as much as you_ _’d think,_ Sid caught himself thinking. Caught himself looking at the soft spot under Geno’s jaw, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to bite or kiss there more. He shook his head. “They're pretty good in smoothies.”

Geno looked at him sidelong. “Okay, Sid. Is okay if tastes change, you know.”

“Sure, I know that.”

He didn’t really care for mangoes though, especially whole ones. They were kind of stringy. He figured it was probably different if you lived somewhere you could get them really fresh, like one of his uncle’s stories about visiting Taiwan and having perfect, fresh pineapple. These were too far from home. But they were pretty good for getting some practice for biting. The skin was too thick, but it was a start; he had already gone through a couple dozen peaches and nectarines, and he felt like he was getting a little better control already.

He didn’t really want to talk about it though. “Here,” he said, turning to the crock pot on the counter. “I made dinner.”

“Yes, I smell!” Geno finally abandoned the mangoes and came around the island, crowding up next to Sid and inhaling deeply. “What is?”

“Beef and lentil stew.” Sid had googled for a recipe, and asked Nathalie for tips. The crock pot had made it pretty easy though, or at least had given him time to forget about all the browning and sauteing and shit earlier. “Oh, hold on, I gotta mix in the baby spinach.” It had to cook for ten more minutes here at the end, after.

“Spinach?” Geno wrinkled his nose, though more in confusion than anything else. “In soup?”

“It was in the recipe,” Sid shrugged. That was a lie. It wasn’t in _this_ recipe, but he had seen it in some others, and anyway, they should eat more greens. He hoped it would be good, or at least good enough.

“Wait. Sid.”

Something in his tone made Sid look up cautiously.

“Sid, you make this for me?”

“Um. Of course. You're my guest.” He finished stirring the leaves in and put the lid back on.

“Sid.”

Sid didn’t look at him, just set the timer for ten minutes. “And I have to eat, too! Vampires eat food!”

Geno was listing off. “Spinach, beef, lentil. All have lots…” he muttered for a second. “Iron.”

Sid turned away, put the rest of the spinach back in the fridge. “Everybody needs more vegetables,” he muttered.

Geno was shaking his head, already grinning insufferably. “Nope. You make special for me. Extra iron for blood.”

Sid could feel himself blushing. “Shut up and get out the bowls, you asshole.”

Geno obeyed, but crooned the whole while: “You make for meeee. Special soup. So _thoughtful._ ” He brought the bowls over and elbowed Sid in the side. “Not need, but so thoughtful.”

“Vegetables are good for everyone,” Sid grumbled.

Geno quit chirping him long enough for them to eat. The spinach made Sid’s teeth feel a little funny, almost furry, but spinach had always done that, even when he was a kid, so it probably wasn’t a vampire thing. Overall though, the stew was pretty good.

Afterward, they washed the bowls and Sid thought about just sticking the whole crockery thing with leftovers in the fridge, deal with it tomorrow, but on second thought, he went ahead and portioned it out into plastic freezer bags. This way he could send some home with Geno—which was good, because there was no way he’d be able to finish the whole thing himself this week.

“Good dinner,” Geno said, and grinned. “Thanks for special soup.”

“Thanks, G,” Sid said absently. He hung up the dish towel he'd been drying the last bowl with and—now what?

Geno leaned back against the counter, just looking at him. Sid swallowed down a rising eagerness. He’d drunk some synthetic right before Geno came over (it seemed prudent, but… rude to do it in front of him?) but even so, this was... not the smartest way to do this, surely. They shouldn't be alone, for one thing: what if Sid lost it, who would stop him? And what about, what about...

“So. Like last time? Couch comfy enough? Can sit up, if you want.” Geno gestured to the stools at the kitchen island, where they’d just finished clearing the food.

That seemed so strange and stiff. Would stiff be better? Maybe he shouldn’t get comfortable. But Geno shouldn’t be uncomfortable. “No, the couch is fine,” Sid said, slowly, and drifted after Geno to the living room. He tried not to feel like he was… stalking him or something.

Geno sat on the couch again. “Position good?” He cocked his head, neck stretching, and that _god damn shirt,_ a black v-neck that Sid had carefully avoided looking at closely ever since Geno arrived. Sid felt his stomach flounder.

He pretended he didn’t see the long stretch of Geno’s neck, and instead sat down, shouldering in a bit closer than he meant to. It worked better, angle-wise, for him to sit facing out, with Geno turned in towards him. He took Geno’s wrist. (Hand? It was more like holding hands than Sid thought his heart could take, so he stopped thinking about that.) Was this the same wrist? There was no mark.

It was awkward, but really shouldn’t it feel _more_ awkward than this?

Geno was watching him, his expression not quite readable.

Sid very softly touched the veins in Geno’s wrist. Solid wrists, nice forearms. His hands were enormous. Sid glanced up—a silent _okay?_ Geno swallowed and nodded, still watching. Sid brushed his thumb over the creases in the skin around the base of the hand, the dusting of hair around the side. The pale indentation in the middle of his wrist, with branching blue veins showing through delicate skin.

Sid was reminded for just a second of a newborn’s soft spot, on the top of the skull, like when he met Kuni’s new baby in April— _get it together,_ he told himself, pushing that thought away queasily. He took a breath and put his mouth over those branching veins, sucking—the skin more malleable and giving than a fruit’s, massaging with his tongue, teeth grazing over the skin. He lifted away for a second, and there was a reddish spot, not quite a hickey…. He latched back on and sucked again.

He was paying better attention this time, and his head didn’t hurt. He could feel (smell? sense?) somehow when it was good—maybe the muscles in Geno’s arm relaxed, maybe it was an echo of his heartbeat, maybe he could smell the venom-induced endorphins kicking in? Whatever it was, there was an easing, and he knew he could—bite. But he tried the thing he’d been working on, a kind of twist and slice, not too long, but right across the vein, and his lips were already sealed around it and he could just—god, just _drink_ , long steady pulls.

He had counted, earlier, how many swallows it took him to drink half a liter of water, and it was between twenty-five and thirty. Given Geno’s weight and height, and what with the potion, a little more than that might be all right, but Sid wanted to play it safe… but it was hard to remember to keep count, to not get lost in the taste and the feel and the warmth of it down his throat. The way it warmed him up, from the inside, the way his hands soaked in the warmth of Geno’s skin, how he could sense Geno’s heartbeat, and… He heard Geno’s breath catch a little and glanced up, along his arm, and Geno’s pupils were _enormous_ , his breathing quick. Which it really shouldn’t have been—it had only been a minute, and this shouldn’t be enough blood loss to affect his pulse or respiration or blood pressure…

“You okay?” Sid asked, pulling off with a quick lick. Like heading off a melting ice cream cone, he thought, absurdly.

Geno shifted his seating a bit and looked away. “Yes yes, fine, go on.”

Sid had already latched back on when his brain belatedly parsed that shift, combined with the smell of… arousal.

He froze for just a moment, losing count. Oh god, Geno was _into_ this. Like... _into_ into. It wasn’t just a matter of supporting his captain, or helping out an injured teammate. He had an actual... vampire kink.

Sid took one more mouthful, very slowly, and thought.

Geno hadn’t said anything. Did he even realize? Well, okay, probably, since he used to date a vampire. He’d probably had plenty of opportunity to figure it out.

But he hadn’t said anything about it, so... he must not want Sid to know. Probably he didn’t want Sid to think that was why he was doing this, offering this. Probably he just didn’t like Sid that way, so he didn’t want him to notice, didn’t want him to think this was something that it wasn't.

And that was—that was okay. It was up to Geno, of course, and Sid could carry on the pretense. This whole smelling thing was a real invasion of privacy, and he couldn’t stop it, but at least he could not _say_ anything about it.

And anyway, maybe that _wasn_ _’t_ what this was. They were a little old for something as high school as random boners, but this whole thing was admittedly kind of... intimate. Sid was practically giving him a hickey. Maybe Geno's wrist was sensitive or whatever. That was reasonable.

Either way... it made Sid's stomach feel hot and complicated. He wasn't sure how he felt about the idea of Geno wanting him because he was a vampire.

Which was ridiculous, anyway. He clearly didn't _want_ him (didn’t want _him_ ): he hadn't made a move, wasn’t being suggestive or whatever, he was probably straight anyway... and even if Geno was into vampires in general, it didn't mean he wanted to date every vampire out there.

 _It doesn't mean he wants_ you.

(And even if he did, it didn’t mean it was a good idea.)

If Geno wasn't going to say anything, then Sid wouldn’t either.

He'd already had at least thirty swallows, so he slowed, tonguing over the cut carefully. It was small, and he could... again, _sense_ the blood slowing, the edges starting to knit up. It happened faster than he’d have guessed.

Sid pulled back, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, and said, “Are you sure you’re okay?” as he looked up into Geno’s eyes.

Looked up—

Straight into Geno’s dark, dark eyes, and Sid couldn’t—he should look away but Geno was just so—he felt like he couldn’t even blink, like he was holding his breath, and an odd sensation in his forehead—soft, like a brushing of wings, like the air of a door swinging open, and then a warm, billowing swirl of—emotions? too much for him to take in, or sort through, and it’s _Geno,_ somehow and—

Sid jerked back, blinking hard and shaking his head, and muttered, “Sorry, sorry.” He was imagining things, that was it. It was weird to stare into someone’s eyes for that long, everyone knew that. And he was still holding Geno’s hand. Wrist. Whatever. He looked down to check the damage.

“Sid….”

It seemed fine—the cut over it was already almost closed. “Hmm?”

“Sid, you—” Sid looked up as Geno groped for a word for a moment, then tapped the center of his forehead, “touch here?”

Sid blanched inwardly. “I… I’m sorry if I did something but I didn’t mean to. I—I wouldn’t put you under thrall on purpose, Geno, I swear.”

“Is word, thrall?” Geno frowned, then shrugged.

“That, uh, that probably wasn’t what it was though,” Sid went on, quickly. “I mean, I don’t know how to do that, so—” He trailed off. That couldn’t be what had just happened. Which was nothing.

“Most vampires can’t do, at all.” Geno was looking at him sort of sideways, and Sid couldn’t bear it.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, right, so, it probably wasn’t… I mean, I don’t. Can’t.” _Won_ _’t,_ he thought, viciously. It was bad enough he was letting any of this happen at all. He got up off the couch abruptly, stuck his hands in his pockets.

Geno chewed his lip, still watching Sid. “Okay, Sid.”

“You feel alright? You’re not dizzy or anything?” He looked him up and down, but his gaze skittered. He couldn’t look into Geno’s eyes, because what if it happened again? He tried not to smell anything, because it was invasive. And because… what if Geno smelled afraid?

Geno rolled his eyes and stood. “Fine.”

“Okay,” he said. “Uh, thanks again.” His stomach felt uncomfortably full, sloshy. Too much liquid.

God, what was he doing?

Geno was collecting his bag again, and humming to himself. “No problem. I text you later, okay?”

“Take some, uh, special soup with you,” Sid told him, and his chest squeezed a little at Geno’s delighted, triumphant grin.

 

##

 

Sid did try googling “vampire thrall” after Geno left, but he mostly found a morass of horror stories: most fictional, or exaggerated (surely exaggerated) movie-based “facts.” There were some distressing links to famous court cases, where people claimed to have been under vampire (or other fae) thrall, and not responsible for their actions. And then, of course, there were hits about _him_ , since he was still the current big vampire story, and yeah. No.

It all seemed to suggest that thrall was a “highly unusual” vampire ability, while somehow simultaneously being a terrifying, pervasive threat to the free will of humans everywhere.

Even the one vampire message board he tried was full of people (vampires? in theory) complaining about Hollywood myths and that no one they even knew could do this, and that it was just one more thing that regular humans held against them, and “don’t even bring up the bonding thing, Obadiah, that’s romance novel bullshit for sure, nobody wants to hear about that.”

So overall, the Internet was a flaming heap of garbage, as usual, and thirty minutes was about Sid’s limit on that front.

 

##

 

In spite of that, the next few days were a mostly pleasant blur. Geno came over most afternoons, and was chatty and amusing, and Sid determinedly did not let himself think about feelings. They took a walk one day, over to the memorial park, on the shadier paths. Sid took an extra dose of sun meds, and they swam in Sid’s pool—well, Sid mostly floated, not cleared for workouts yet, till Geno started splashing him obnoxiously, and then Sid got ahold of a hose. They ate leftover stew (it was a big pot), or Geno brought take-out, or Sid made spinach salad with strawberries and caramelized onions and grilled chicken.

And then they sat on the couch together, and Sid drank from Geno’s wrist, carefully, not making eye contact.

He wasn’t sure it should feel so normal, so routine.

He kept his eyes closed, smelling him (no fear, he didn’t think, but what did he know, he was no expert), and told himself: _I_ _’m not… I’m not forcing him._

It was true. He hoped. Geno was always the one who said, “Next time?” Sid had to hope that was okay.

 

##

 

It was not a typical end of season. Normally everyone would be off on break already, but between Geno’s knee, and his own… situation, and other injuries, the doctors and trainers were extending their time at the rink, on a limited schedule, for a few more weeks. Most of the team was out of town already, but a few of the guys were taking the opportunity to do the beginning of their summer training with the equipment and staff here.

It wasn’t a bad idea. Sid had elected to stay longer, though he would normally be training back in Cole Harbour by this time. Of course, the whole training thing was an ongoing challenge right now. And anyway he—he wasn’t ready.

Sid went in to the rink on Thursday, made his usual reports to Dr. Collins, did his usual tests. As always, most of their focus was on concussion symptoms and so on—contrary to what some in the media might say, the whole vampire thing wasn’t really the main problem he was dealing with right now, in terms of his career. But towards the end of their time, he asked Dr. Collins, “So, I had a question.” He couldn’t just _ask_ outright, but— “About the whole vampire thing. Is there anything I could, uh, be doing in that area that would be helpful? With healing, or recovery, I mean.” He took a deep breath. “Like, uh, drinking more, or on a certain schedule, or, I don’t know, anything with staying out of the sun, or…” He shrugged. “I was just wondering if there was any information out there.”

Maybe he was imagining a significant hesitation here. (He didn’t like the way it felt to notice it—as if he were a cat casually honing in on a fluttering sparrow.) He wasn’t imagining that brief scent of fear, though. That happened. A lot. He didn’t hold it against the doctor, or anyone, really. People didn’t like talking about vampires, which was reasonable. Normally he tried not to remind them.

The doctor’s voice sounded normal as he replied, “Well, first I’d caution you about trusting a lot of information you might find online—” At Sid’s rueful look, he smiled. “Obviously much of it is pure fabrication, and I’m afraid there just isn’t much significant, trustworthy research in the area. Even our personal experience here, as an organization, has never indicated much that would be helpful in this situation, because it’s just too unique.”

That was probably true, though Sid had also gotten the impression that either Jagr and Dr. Collins hadn’t really gotten along, or else Jagr had just been really closed-mouthed about everything to do with being a vampire. Which Sid could definitely understand.

“The most reliable research I have seen,” the doctor continued, “indicates that there’s no significant healing-related difference for vampires between ingesting synthetic versus non-synthetic blood. Pigs’ blood from the butcher, for example, showed no improvement over synthetic—though I suppose some might prefer it for personal taste reasons. Do you—” a pause “find your appetite in that area is declining?”

“Oh, no, no, uh, synthetic is fine.” It _was_ fine. It was nothing like… but it was fine. Sid also wondered briefly if the freshness of the blood involved in those studies might make a difference, but this was definitely not a conversation he was ready to have.

“You’ve definitely made some progress this week, Sidney,” Dr. Collins said, reassuringly. “I wouldn’t worry about tweaking anything in that area. Just keep doing what you’re doing, I think. I can clear you for very light,” this with a stern eye, “ _very light_ workouts at home this next week. Just take it day by day, right?”

 “Yeah, for sure,” Sid replied. _Day by day._ Was that ironic phrasing now, considering the whole vampire thing?

Sid stopped in the doorway. He could just barely smell the cold air off the rink, two corridors away. He breathed it, counting to five, and let himself wish with the intensity of playoffs overtime that he could just play. He’d do a hundred press conferences, a thousand media scrums, in a row, right now, if it meant he could _just play_. Not to mention, out on the ice, with the damping wards in place… he wouldn’t be able to lose control. Hurt someone. Accidentally thrall someone, whatever. He pulled his black ball cap down over his forehead and left the office, turning away from the rink.

Geno and Flower were both in the training area. Geno was riding a stationary bike slowly, under Stew’s watchful eye, and Flower seemed to be just finishing up talking to Dana about something.

“Sid,” Flower said, his face lighting up, bouncing a little.

“Hey, I thought you left town already.”

“Please.” Flower snorted. “A couple more weeks. You come out to lunch now, yes? I need to talk to you, _mon chum_.” Flower stopped bouncing and studied his face for a moment. “How’s this week going, then?”

Sid shrugged, and didn’t look over at Geno. “Not bad. Feeling a bit better, so—”

Flower laughed. “So, not enough to do? I can get my list out again.”

He was pretty sure that Flower had gotten all his concussion-safe activity suggestions off a site for little kids, but the fact that he’d researched this, and kept adding to it… Sid tried to hide his grin with an eye-roll.

“I’m sure Duper would loan you a toddler for finger painting time,” Flower began, counting on his fingers. (It might be true, but Sid would never ask...) “Or there’s bubble baths, Sid! Bubble baths!”

Sid laughed. “Shut up.” That didn’t sound so bad, actually, but he wasn’t dumb enough to admit that to _Flower_. He’d end up with bath bombs all over his stall, or his car, or his house.

“Nature scavenger hunts,” Flower continued, undeterred. “Or playing with animals. Calm animals, of course.”

“Yes, good,” Geno called over, as he climbed off the bike. “Dixie is best cat, very peaceful. You come over and pet, Sid.”

“Perfect,” Flower said, with a nod of approval.

Sid wasn’t sure he would ever love any living creature as much as Geno adored that cat. “Sure, G, sounds good.” As long as it wasn’t right now. Geno was wearing another deep v-neck shirt, stuck to his chest and back with sweat, and Sid was—not looking over there, that was for sure. He had to get a grip.

As they headed for the exit, Flower nudged him. “You’re really okay?”

“Sure,” Sid said. He wasn’t tracking Geno’s every movement, he wasn’t thinking about the next time he’d be coming over… he really had to dial it back. This was just a little casual blood-sharing among friends, right? Casual.

And speaking of friends, he was a terrible one. He nudged Flower back, and grinned. “But I don’t know about you. You look like you’re going to explode if you don’t—”

“I’m proposing to Vero,” Flower burst out, before they’d even gotten properly onto the stairs. “We’ve been talking about kids, and I’m doing it. As soon as we get back to Montreal, and—”

“Oh my god, hey, congratulations!” Sid stopped, and hugged him, and of course it turned long and minorly bone-crushing, because Marc-André Fleury was a fount of joyful excess at the best of times. And this was the best of times.

“God, Sidney, I’m so fucking lucky, I just can’t believe—”

Sid squeezed him harder. “You are,” he agreed. And then, “But I think she’s pretty lucky, too.” Flower laughed suspiciously damply into Sid’s shoulder, and Sid let him go. “Come on, let me take you someplace and you can tell me your whole plan. I know it’s epic.”

“Of course it is,” Flower grinned, and led the way.

 

##

 

Sid didn’t exactly have a plan on how to dial things back with Geno, but maybe the intention was enough for now.

The next time, he figured they could watch something on TV during, make it more casual. But he ended up with his head on Geno’s leg, softly drinking from his wrist, and yeah. That was a fail.

It’s food, sustenance, he told himself the time after that, and you should treat it that way. Plus doing it sitting up at the table would be awkward, and therefore better.

Maybe it would have been, if Geno didn’t manage to make even that seem cool and normal. He chattered about a Pirates game and drank the smoothie that he’d bullied Sid into making for him—“Mango, Sid! I know you need to use, so. Show me.” Part of Sid appreciated his unshakable good humor and the way he made it all seem like no big deal.

Part of him… did not.

It didn’t help that at night, in bed, his fantasies stubbornly veered toward Geno now, every time. He tried not to get specific, and he tried not to bring the whole bloodlust thing into it either, but it was sometimes a losing battle, knowing what his skin felt like under Sid’s lips, knowing the smell of him….

On Tuesday, Sid went over to Geno’s, where Geno had ordered garlic lemon shrimp, and salad with garlic dressing, _and_ garlic bread, which he clearly thought was _hilarious_ , and Sid did in fact pet Dixie. They talked about the outlook for the first game of the finals tomorrow at length, until an alarm on Geno’s phone went off and he said, looking regretful, “Sorry, I’m have Skype call with home soon.”

“Oh!” Sid stood. “Sure, sorry, I didn’t mean to—” They hadn’t even—but it wasn’t like he was _entitled_ to anything—and he didn’t absolutely need it. He just… really wanted it.

But that was no excuse.

Geno walked him over to the door. “We meet tomorrow? Watch game?”

“Sorry, can’t,” Sid said. “I’ve got dinner with Flower,” which was true, “and then appointments on Thursday and Friday,” which maybe wasn’t quite.

Geno paused, considering, and then raised his arm, saying diffidently, “Maybe—quick?”

Sid hesitated for a second (not long enough), then took Geno’s proffered wrist, gingerly. It took all of his focus not to stroke his fingers over the soft inside of his arm, to hold it firmly, to lick over the delicate skin and not meet Geno’s eyes when he bit down. He tried to be as quick as he could. He was a lot better at it now—he knew how to cut just enough, how a vein was faster, how to hold his tongue over the cut till he could not-exactly-feel it begin to knit up, so that it wouldn’t leave a mark for longer than an hour or two.

He had to stop wanting it to leave a mark.

 

##

 

It turned out Geno was busy over the weekend, which was just as well, because even just the idea of seeing him…. He couldn’t let himself get like this. He was cut off.

So Sid didn’t call or text Geno that week, except minimal responses that he was fine, and couldn’t meet because he was busy. Maybe he was finally letting his better nature win, or something.

He wanted to ask how Geno was feeling—make sure that he wasn’t sick, make sure that there weren’t any side-effects from the potions or anything, but Geno always dismissed his concerns. And asking felt like he was just... confirming his blood source or something. Like all he cared about was keeping Geno healthy so he could drink from him, and even though that wasn’t true... he could understand how it might come across like that. No wonder Geno never seemed to want to hear it.

So he said nothing, and he didn’t call. The whole week. He didn’t call when he woke up from a dream of Geno’s neck, or when he drank his lukewarm synthetic and tried not to think about how much better it was curled up on the couch with Geno. He was dizzy and nauseous on Thursday, after his appointment at the rink, but it wasn’t a big deal. Enough to be frustrating, but not enough for any particular alarm. He went and bought a couple of gifts on Friday afternoon. He had dinner with Duper and his family. He went for a short walk along the river.

But Saturday he felt worse. And then Sunday afternoon, a headache hit full force.

He’d probably overdone it this week, was all. It was just a little setback, he told himself, making a note in his phone so that he could report it the next time he was due to go to the rink. He did what he was supposed to: took the painkillers in the washroom cabinet, and then he took a hot shower, to try to relax the muscles in his back and neck and head that were tensing up from the pain. Then he lay down on his bed, in soft pajamas, his hair damp, his room darkened.

He couldn’t even sleep.

Just lay there, twitching his leg slightly, trying not to make any sounds, even though no one was there to hear him. He wasn’t very successful.

He couldn’t get his thoughts to quit racing, as though if he could just think fast enough it would solve something. _You_ _’re supposed to be resting,_ he tried to tell his brain. He didn’t think he was actually feverish—that wasn’t a concussion thing, but maybe it was a vampire thing? He was so tired of not knowing things.

The pain definitely made him _thirstier._

He tried to breathe, and breathe, and breathe, and then he had to get up and stagger to the toilet to vomit. The saddest part was, it wasn’t even that unusual for this to happen. The worst part was that it didn’t make him feel better for more than sixty seconds afterward, because it wasn’t food poisoning or anything, it was just pain.

He rested his forehead on his arm against the toilet seat, thinking only vaguely: a deep sense of gratitude for his cleaning service; a wistful memory of his dad rubbing his back when he was very young and sick; how much being an adult sucked.

He rinsed his mouth (water, mouthwash, water again) and laid back on top of his blankets, a little shaky.

Sid knew…. He’d lived through bad headaches before. He knew he could get through this alone. He just had to wait it out, he _could_ do it on his own. But. He didn’t want to.

Feeling absolutely ashamed of himself, he got out his phone, the screen turned as dim as possible, and texted Geno.

**Hey.**

**_Hi Sid, how_ ** **_’s head? )))_ **

At least he didn’t have to bring it up himself. **Not so great, actually** _._ He made himself type: **Could you maybe come over?**

He took a deep breath, two, and then pressed send.

He might be busy, Sid tried to tell himself. Or maybe he’s done with this, maybe he’s got a date, maybe he’s just come to his goddamn senses finally…

His phone dinged.

**_Of course come right over_ **

Sid took a breath. **Let yourself in okay?**

 

##

 

Sid didn’t have to throw up again while he waited, thank god. Maybe it was just the relief of knowing that Geno was on his way, but he must have dozed a little, because one minute he was breathing along with a meditation app, and the next Geno was standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light from the staircase, way down the hall. It was still almost too bright for Sid to handle.

“Hey, G,” he said, trying for wry.

God, he could smell Geno already, from all the way across the room. His sense of smell was often heightened during headaches, but this was ridiculous. It was like he had his nose pressed into Geno’s neck or something. (For a vivid, horrifying moment, he had a vision of tearing messily into Geno’s soft throat, of blood gushing, of— _stop_. He stomped it down as hard as he could.) 

“Sid,” Geno said, softly, and came in, kneeling next to the bed, and putting a hand very gently on Sid’s head. He muttered something in Russian, and then, “I should call doctor?”

Sid wanted to laugh, but that would just hurt more. “No, G, this isn’t... that bad.”

“Look pretty bad, Sid.”

Sid shrugged with one shoulder. “Not really. The painkillers aren’t really making a dent today, but... it’s within normal range.”

“But you call.”

“Yeah, sorry, I—“

“Shouldn’t be sorry, Sid! I wish you call earlier.”

“Yeah, I’m kinda wishing that right now, too.” A sudden jab of nausea hit him, and he swallowed hard. It was bad enough Sid had called him here at all... He was _not_ going to throw up all over Geno, he _was not_. He breathed a little more, and managed not to vomit, though he didn’t manage not to whimper.

Geno echoed him, a distressed under-the-breath sound. “Sid, I help? Okay?”

Sid nodded. “Yes, please,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

There was a rustling, a motion of air, and then—the mattress dipped. Geno was climbing onto the bed, was spooning up behind him, pulling Sid in close.

God, he was so warm. Sid could feel his breath on the back of his neck.

It occurred to him, dimly, that this was a first, for this house. He’d had girls, and guys, spend the night before, back home at the house by the lake, or even, awkwardly, at Mario’s. He’d just been really focused on recovery since he’d moved, and then there was the vampire thing… So this was the first time he’d had anyone over like this, here, in his room like this, in… bed. Even though it wasn’t _like that,_ but still.

“Here,” Geno said, softly, and reached over, pressed his wrist to Sid’s lips.

This is the opposite of casual, he thought, distantly, as he latched on and sucked for a minute. Geno’s wrist was so soft. Sid thought he might be still be making those small distressed noises, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Shh,” said Geno into his ear. “Come on.” Sid bit.

It was so warm and good, rich, and he had missed this, and it was even better because Geno was tucked up close against him, chest to back, arms around him. Sid could smell him all around, his soap and sweat and compelling not-bakery scent, and feel the rise and fall of his chest, feel his breath against his neck, tremulous. It was steadying, like tight-laced skates around your ankles.

His head still hurt but he couldn’t even care, it was all so good. His chest ached. The ever-present background growling for more seemed muted, by the pain, or by the closeness.

He didn’t want it to be over. He drank as slowly as he could manage, and then he was asleep.

 

##

 

When Sid blinked awake in the morning, alone, with that rotten, hollowed-out, headache-hangover feeling, he almost thought he had dreamed the whole thing. Then he saw spots of dried blood on the duvet, and his stomach knotted.

Geno was sitting on the couch in the living room, peering dubiously at a plate of scrambled eggs, but his face brightened when he saw Sid hurrying in. “You awake! Sorry, more eggs in kitchen, wanted to let you sleep.”

“Geno.” Sid felt like he was looming, and dropped down on the couch. He had to sit on his hands to keep from grabbing Geno immediately. Geno, sitting there in too-short sweatpants and a white v-neck, like nothing had happened, like nothing could have happened.

Geno frowned a little. “Maybe you need sleep more. Have—” He lifted a hand, and lightly touched Sid’s face. The skin under his eyes. “You okay? Need drink more?”

“Am _I—_ god.” He gave up, snatched Geno’s hand away, and checked his wrist. There was a bruise, and two narrow lines, scabbed over.

Geno opened his mouth, no doubt to insist that he was just fine, and Sid couldn’t take it. “You shouldn’t have let me do that last night. That was stupid, and so dangerous—”

 Geno looked honestly taken aback. “Why dangerous?”

“I was… I was in pain. I could have hurt you.” _I could always hurt you._

 “Not look so good last night, Sid.” Geno’s concerned mouth twisted a little wry. “Think I can take you.”

Sid wasn’t going to be distracted. “I wasn’t in control, though, and I just fell asleep, I didn’t even…” He realized he was still holding Geno’s hand, and dropped it quickly.

“You always in control,” Geno said, in a strange tone, but he continued quickly, “I tell you, Sid, I’m fine, I don’t mind—”

“Yeah, but that’s just because you—” Sid turned his face away. “You like it.”

Geno’s head jerked up; Sid could see it from the corner of his eye. “What?”

“I know you have a vampire thing, G. I can… smell that you like it, okay?”

Silence.

“I didn’t want to say anything, I know it’s a little _weird_ —” _that I can smell anything to do with your dick,_ okay, he wasn’t going to say that. But before he could attempt to rephrase, Geno jerked back.

“So?” His cheeks were flaming red, and his scent was absolutely flooding with embarrassment, distress… Sid hardly knew. “Jesus, Sid, you want I leave, fine, not need to shame me about this.” He stood, abruptly.

Leave? Wait, shame him about… oh god. “Geno, I didn't mean—” He caught Geno’s wrist. His pulse was quick and nervy. “That’s not—”

Geno held still, and narrowed his eyes. “You saying, you not like too?”

“I—”

“You always in control,” Geno said, and this time Sid could hear the bitterness, could practically smell it. “Right?”

Sid licked his lips and dragged his gaze away from Geno’s eyes, and then from his mouth, and then—

Geno noticed, because of course he did. “Still pretend you not want to bite here?” He turned his head, hooked a finger into the stretched out v-neck of his shirt and pulled.

Sid might have made a noise. He definitely did not let go of Geno’s wrist.

And suddenly—suddenly Geno was in his _lap,_ kneeling over him, leaning in close, huge and lanky and warm and smelling like everything Sid could never allow himself to have. How was his life this fucked.

His throat was right. There. Crossed by the gold chain, the little cross and the saint medal, and Geno was impatiently flicking it out of the way.

There was a mole just there, just on his right collarbone. The swell of his pecs almost like cleavage, god, Sid couldn’t _breathe_. The smell of the fucking artery in his neck.

Sid’s voice came out a croak. “G—”

Geno said something brief in Russian, his voice a little low and snarly, “—fuck’s sake, Sid—”

He slid a huge hand around the back of Sid’s neck, fingers tangling up in Sid's hair, and pulled him in, pulled his face into Geno's chest, higher, pulled his face into the crook of his neck. Held him there.

Sid’s hands were clutching at Geno’s waist, pulling him closer.

It was like sometimes, in the celly, and also nothing like it at all.

“Come on, Sid,” Geno growled, but he smelled—desperate, sad, eager.

Sid had barely enough control left to keep himself from just tearing into him, just there, just under his jaw, but he wouldn’t, he _wouldn_ _’t._ Instead, he latched on, sucking and sucking, right in the soft spot at the base of his neck, above his collarbone, and he felt like an idiot, but god, the suction of it was so good, so right, and fuck, he could feel the surface tension of Geno’s skin under his teeth. His fangs were so sharp, and yeah, his dick was so hard in his flannel pants between them.

“Come on, Sid,” Geno said again, but softer, and Sid choked back a sound, and bit.

Heated liquid down his throat, heated skin under his lips, Jesus, Geno’s _neck,_ it was so soft and bare, he couldn’t _stand_ it... Sid suddenly realized that his hands were moving, fingers brushing the edge of the waistband of Geno’s sweats, sneaking up under the edge of his shirt, kneading into the gentle roll of skin and fat there. Geno's fingers echoed the movements, in Sid's hair—slight, constant motion, and his big cradling palm.

Sid sucked harder. Geno shifted, gasped. And pulled Sid’s hair, and fuck yes.

Geno was hunched over a bit, panting, so Sid snorted, drew back for a second, letting the blood leak down and well into the dip of Geno’s clavicle. Geno let him go but kept a hand on his head. Sid tugged at Geno's hips, sliding him closer along his thighs. Fitting against each other.

He darted a glance up. “Yeah?”

Geno nodded, breathlessly, and then whimpered into the side of Sid’s head when he stretched up and bit down again, and—moved against him. Not just idly.

Sid made his own little gasping sound, and rooted his face in, sucked harder. Geno groaned—finally—and grabbed the back of the couch. He rolled his hips, ground their cocks together, and fuck, how was this so amazing.

Geno gasped something, some word, and Sid tried to pull him closer, even though it screwed with their rhythm. He couldn’t have made his hands let go if he’d wanted to, feeling the sweat pricking on Geno’s skin, the tension in the muscles of his back building. Geno couldn’t seem to stop making small sounds, low-pitched and helpless; he was _noisy,_ and Sid was fucking delighted.

He gulped, greedily, and Geno made a punched-out sound, not quite like being boarded, right there by Sid’s ear, fuck, and shuddered, coming. The heat, the sharp smell, he couldn’t—Sid moaned against him, and came suddenly, his mouth open against Geno’s skin, a little liquid trickling past his lips.

For a long moment he just took a few heaving breaths, his cheek pressed against Geno’s chest (also heaving). Geno’s skin was warm, tacky with sweat, and his arms were heavy over Sid’s shoulders. Sid pulled back slightly, and Geno was looking at him, smiling, panting, looking soft and pleased, his face flushed, his eyes soft.

Their faces were so close together, and Geno leaned closer, and Sid tipped his chin up, god yes—

Then Geno wavered, his expression going strange, and Sid sat back a bit. “Geno?”

Geno waved it off. “Dizzy,” he said, lightly, and started to sit up, to scoot back, and then he started to collapse. Sid didn’t even remember moving: he was just suddenly up, steadying Geno, easing him down to lie on the couch, pillow under his shoulders. Sid’s body moved confidently, strong, but his voice—

“Geno, Geno, Geno, are you alright, are you, hey, hey talk to me—”

Geno closed his eyes for a long, long second, but then opened them again. “Is fine, Sid, just forget—”

Sid couldn’t quite breathe right. He grabbed for Geno’s wrist (pulse strong but quick), and said, “Hey, look at me, are you sure—”

Their eyes locked, and Sid fell into it this time, all the way: a step off a diving board, straight down, through air and water into—

 

 

It isn’t like seeing. He’s looking into Geno’s dark (beautiful) eyes, but he isn’t really seeing—it’s more like all the other senses, combined: touch, smell, taste, hearing.

There’s still too much, and Sid doesn’t know how to process any of it. The door is open, and it’s like smoke, or clouds of water, billowing in and out—he doesn’t know how to sort anything out. Geno’s mind—presence? emotional inner landscape?—is big, hugely warm and enveloping. Sid gets a sense of glittering, skating thoughts and laughter and tears, cresting along the surface, where underneath it’s expansive, steadier, deep…

It’s lovely. Or it would be, if Sid weren’t panicking.

 _Are you okay, please be okay, I can_ _’t bear it, please please, Geno, Geno—_

It’s mostly emotion, feelings thick around him, but occasionally words, or something his brain interprets as words, will break through in more specific, precise bursts.

 _I_ _’m fine, Sid, stop freaking out._ The words are so _full_ —tired, fond, impatient, shading into frustration, and all laced with warmth, with... affection?

_Are you sure, are you sure, oh god, Geno_

_I_ _’m sure, I’m sure, shhh—_

The weird thing is, Sid can tell Geno’s trying to make him feel better, of course. But under that… there’s something. It’s not like reading warning dials on a car—nothing that technical. More like—knowing the feel of a stretching muscle, of a sprain versus a break. He just knows, somehow, that Geno isn’t in danger, is okay, physically.

He isn’t sure he should trust this, but he does.

Okay, okay. Okay.

He relaxes for a second, takes a breath—Geno’s scent all around him, snapping into place, and it’s a sense of connection, a lifeline—grounding.

Now that he’s calmer, Sid can—hear? feel?—a little better, feel warm undercurrents of emotion and a sort of _shhloveconcernhelpsootheshhlovelovelove_ _…_

Sid looks at him in wonder, and thinks, says: _wow, do you really?_

 _You idiot,_ Geno replies, and that current pulses stronger, warmer. It’s amazing. Sid sort of… pushes in a little closer, like it’s a campfire, he wants to get warm, get a better look, it’s so warm, so good, so—

 _Sid?_ Geno sounds, seems, amazed: a growing buoyant wonder, and _Really, Sid, you too?_

Sid feels it like a reflection—what Geno’s seeing, which is… which is how Sid feels about him, all the affection and concern and helpless longing and—

He’s rushed with unease—he isn’t _trying_ to show him, and can—can Geno just see _everything?_ Everything else, too? All the pathetic self-pity, all the awful fear and pettiness and bloodlust, loathing like a stinking rotten stench curling around everything, and every way he’s secretly a monster even though he tries so hard not to show it—

_Sid, no—_

An ugly clench of thirst, insatiable, insidious, reckless— Geno’s still here, still not withdrawing, and Sid can’t get a clear read on him, but... something’s missing. From his scent, from his emotions.

Geno isn’t afraid at all, and Sid’s suddenly, finally, fully realizing— _What is this?_ he says without meaning to, but he knows, it must be, it’s thrall, it’s—

A hesitation. _I think it_ _’s bonding, Sid._

Oh no.

Sid flails, a sucking, drowning spiral of shame, livid-purple, _this is all my fault and I should never and now—_

He feels Geno flaring with shock and then hurt like a blow to the chest, a jagged edge of _hurtfailurerejectionagainofcoursehedoesn_ _’tagaintheyneverwantmeregretpain_

 _Sorrysorrysorrysorry_ , Sid cries, and eels backward, and—

 

 

He flinched. His eyes were closed, he was gasping, and he felt so awful, that echo of Geno’s hurt, like broken ribs.

Geno. Lying on the couch, eyes wide, a streak of dried blood on his neck, staining his collar.

“What just. God, I’m. Sorry.” He was still holding Geno’s wrist, feeling his pulse (still there, still strong), and he jerked, letting go. But Geno grabbed his hand, and squeezed it, and Sid didn’t have the heart to pull away.

“Sid.” His voice was choked.

Faintly, Sid could feel… something. “Is that—”

“Bond, I think.”

It was different, less intense. Before, it was like being immersed, surrounded by flowing water. This was more like… a tap. He felt a sense of control, of direction, like he could turn it higher or lower.

It was… easier to handle. But that didn’t make it okay, for him to just _invade_ —and _impose_ this on Geno, and—

“Can we break it?”

Geno stilled. “You want to break?”

Sid could feel him holding back—but that broken-rib-hurt underneath, aching and aching—”Geno, no, I just…” His head fell forward. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I never meant, I never wanted to do that to you, I’m so sorry.”

“Sid.” Geno was pushing calm at him, through the bond, faint but steady. “What you think you do?”

“I didn’t want to, to thrall you like that, or force you to bond with me, or.”

“You not force. Can’t force bond.”

“You can’t?”

Geno shook his head. “Bond builds over time, breaks over time. Can’t force, have to both—” a pulse of old grief, “have to both want.”

Evgeni Malkin was a ridiculous, stubborn, reckless asshole, and the idea that anyone, ever, could _not want_ to bond with him seemed just… how? Sid’s incredulousness must have come through, because Geno laughed a little, and Sid felt an answering warmth.

If this was true… Sid wanted it to be true, god, did he want… but what if Geno was just saying what he wanted to hear, because Sid had enthralled him, hypnotized him, whatever—

“I’m not under spell, Sid.”

“Are you sure?” Sid kept his gaze down, studying Geno’s big hand in his own—bony knuckles, the loose curve of his fingers. “I mean, you _would_ say that, right? If you were.”

“Sid.” Sid didn’t need the bond to feel the frustration in Geno’s voice. “You a little… push maybe, but you upset. Not force. I do before, know how it feels.”

Sid felt a stab of raging jealousy, looked up, into his eyes, and then quickly away. “Someone put you under thrall?”

Geno shifted impatiently. “Don’t like this word, ‘thrall’—feels bad, when you say. In Russian, word for this means… means touch. Contact. Not this… always mean control, force.”

“So it can’t ever be—control? Force?” _Would the internet_ lie _to me,_ he thought distantly, with a hint of hysterical laughter.

“Of course _can_. But not always. Like… body can check, or fight, not mean can’t hug, or shake hands.” Geno shot him a look that made him hot all over, even just seeing it out of the corner of his eye. “Or other things.”

Right. _That_ had happened, too. Jesus, what a morning. Sid swallowed. “Hey, can I bring you something? Water?”

Geno nodded. “And potion, in bag. Sorry, is my fault—forget to take this morning early.”

Sid stood, got the water and the little red-labeled bottle from Geno’s bag near the door. He couldn’t feel anything through the bond when they weren’t touching, but he could feel its presence. The opposite of a newly missing tooth.

He pulled up the ottoman and sat while Geno drank, trying not to loom or stare. He wanted to stare so badly.

Geno sat back, and closed his eyes for a minute. “I need apologize, Sid.”

“What?”

“Sorry. I don’t know you feel so…” He gestured. “So much bad.” He looked over. “About vampire things.”

Sid blinked in confusion, and Geno brushed their hands together, and sent a brief echo of that drowning, livid-purple shame, and a wash of concern. He drew back his hand after, and just watched Sid’s face.

“What, am I supposed to be happy about it all,” Sid muttered, embarrassed. “And why are _you_ _…_ I mean, how could you have known?” Sid hadn’t wanted him to know.

Geno shrugged, rolling the glass in his hands. “Still sorry. I’m too pressure, maybe. Force. Don’t want—don’t want you feel like—”

And well. Sid couldn’t let that stand. He reached—slowly, ready to pull back—and put his hand on Geno’s wrist. He closed his eyes and just—opened up, let out a stream, _fearshameguilt_ but also _wanteagerwonderlovewantwantwant_ —

When he opened his eyes, Geno was blinking, his cheeks distinctly flushed. “Seem to me like it’s not all bad, Sid.”

 

##

 

An hour later, Geno said he felt fine, but he agreed to go get checked out, just in case, and to take a taxi there. Sid could tell he thought it was kind of stupid, but Sid didn’t actually know how much blood he’d lost, or how effective that potion was, or… he just needed to be careful. (And if that weird monitoring-sense turned out to be right… well, that was important to know, too. For science, right?)

Sid wanted to drive him. Sid didn’t want Geno to leave his sight. But that background growl was possessive now, and Sid didn’t think he should encourage it too much, right away.

“I just… I need to think, okay?” Sid said just before the taxi arrived. They were sitting out on the front steps, close, arms pressed together. Geno nodded. “Maybe even for a couple of days.” He could feel a flutter of anxiety through the bond, and he leaned closer. “No, not like that, I swear, okay? I’ll call you tonight. I just have to…” He trailed off, tugging on his hair with one hand.

“Okay, Sid, I get.” Geno put an arm around him and rested his head atop Sid’s. First tentatively, then stronger and surer, he sent waves of what felt like—good things. Little things, like Sid’s favorite jam, a fresh sheet of ice, peanut butter cups, snow. And bigger things, ones tied to big, outrageous, abstract words like _contentment,_ or _lucky,_ or _faith_ , or _happiness,_ or— Till Sid was sure his face had never been so red, and he was practically tingling all over with it.

“Okay?” Geno asked, once, and Sid just nodded.

They sat like that until it was time for him to go.

 

##

 

Sid sat on the steps alone, listening for as long as enhanced hearing would allow, then he made himself get up and go inside and clean up a bit.

He found himself outside again, this time on the back patio stairs, right about the time that Geno texted.

 ** _Nurse say blood pressure normal_** , it read. **_All okay._**

Sid breathed out, in a rush. **Good, I** **’m really glad,** he sent back. Understatement of the month, he thought.

He didn’t know what else to say, so: **I** **’ll call you later tonight, okay?**

 ** _Yes okay_** , came the reply, immediately, and, after a moment, **_)))))_**

Sid picked through the stupid keyboard interface till he could send a single pink heart emoji. Then he put his phone away.

He knew what he felt, even (he thought with a glow of cautious warmth) what Geno felt, but he didn’t know what all this would mean.

It was a nice day out, cool for June. He tipped his head back and listened to the ripples in the pool, to the breeze in the pines at the edges of his yard. He could hear birds but he still didn’t know the types that lived here. The sun felt overwarm on his face, prickly. He tried to remember what it was like, before. (Before. Jesus, only… a month and a half ago? Could that be right?) It wasn’t like he’d loved the beach that much back then.

He poked mentally at the bond—it was still there. He thought about the thrall thing—how it had been: overwhelming, scary, wonderful. He wanted to do it again. Almost as much as he wanted to drink from Geno again, which was almost as much as he wanted to fuck him, which was almost as much as he wanted to kiss him, god, how had he not even kissed him… It was mixed up, confused, confusing; he didn’t know how to reconcile any of it. He didn’t know anything, not even himself anymore, it felt like, and he was so tired of it. He put his head down, into his hands, eyes still closed. _You_ _’re not even twenty-four,_ he told himself. _You_ _’re not allowed to have a mid-life-crisis yet._

He heard the gate out front, and a car; he’d forgotten that Flower had insisted on dropping by today before he left town tonight for Montreal. He thought for a moment about going inside, and—what, hiding? Pathetic. He stayed where he was.

Flower came around the side after a few minutes, stopped, came and sat down next to him on the steps. Sid still didn’t move.

“Hm. Headache? Should you be sitting out here?”

Sid shrugged. He’d taken his meds earlier. “Had a bad one last night.”

Flower made a guttural, sympathetic, frustrated sound. “Doesn’t anything help?”

Sid knew it was rhetorical, but he felt some bizarre urge to just.… He raised his head, stared at his hands on his knees. “Well…”

“Well?”

Sid spoke quickly, past the clenching in his stomach. “Drinking blood. Fresh blood.” He was shaking, surely. “It doesn’t just magically fix everything all at once—”

“Too bad,” Flower put in, lightly.

Sid glared at him. “But it does help some, like when I have a headache, and maybe over time too, I mean, I don’t know, but—”

“Okay.” How was he so calm, hearing this. “So who’s the donor?”

Sid bit his lip. “Geno.”

“Okay.” He nodded like it made sense, and part of Sid wanted to object, just out of orneriness. Just because Flower had low-key known about Sid’s feelings for Geno for years now… “Hm. So, uh, how’d that get started? Are you guys just suck-buddies or what?”

“Oh my god, Flower, it’s not funny.” But he was laughing.

Flower’s tone was almost not smug at all. “It’s a little funny.”

But Sid’s laughter was threatening to turn into something else, and he was trying to bite it back, and when Flower touched his shoulder and said, “Sid—” he couldn’t stop himself from babbling. “It’s just… this morning… we uh, it was too much, I should’ve been more careful, and it was a, a problem, he got all dizzy, and then I—I _swear_ , I didn’t mean to thrall him, I swear, I wouldn’t….” He was clutching the back of his neck, afraid to look over, afraid to see the look on Flower’s face. No matter what Geno said, people were going to think—

“Sid.” Flower’s voice was all business, which was strangely comforting. “Okay, first. Is Geno okay, right now?”

“Well, yeah. He’s got these potions—”

“Oh, I’ve read about those. Bloodheart, yes?”

“Maybe?”

“You don’t know?”

“We don’t really talk about it.”

“Hmm.” Flower looked dubious, but let it go. “So Geno’s fine.”

“Yeah, he’s, he got a checkup earlier, he’s okay.” _Thank god, thank god, thank god._

“Okay. And this… thrall thing, it happened when?”

“This morning.”

“And you started with the biting when?”

“A couple weeks ago. Mid-May.” Almost a month, now that he thought about it.

“So… it doesn’t sound like you forced him into anything, Sid.”

“Well… I mean, it was his idea, but I—” The old guilt twisted up viciously in his throat, and the memory of Geno on the steps this morning seemed too far away. “I should’ve said no, I should’ve—it’s not _okay_ to just—”

“Why not?” Flower sounded so mild, so reasonable. Kind of like Geno, back when this all started, and—

“Because I’m a _fucking monster now_ , Marc-André, in case you hadn’t heard, and I don’t want to _hurt anyone_.” He breathed through his nose a minute, fighting back the prickling behind his eyes. “Especially not—” He was curling into himself.

“Hey.” Flower’s hands were suddenly right there, solid on either side of Sid’s face, pulling him close enough that their foreheads were bumping together, like at the net after a game. Sid squeezed his eyes shut, breathing Flower’s scent (light, and rain, and something with a lot of onion he’d probably had for lunch).

Flower said, quietly, and in French: “That doesn’t sound to me like something a monster would say, Sidney.”

Sid choked back some kind of sound; he honestly didn’t know what.

Flower didn’t let go. “Hey.” God, his voice was so gentle. Gentling. “Hey, shut up, you’re so dumb.”

Sid’s voice was thick when he laughed. “Asshole. I’m having a breakdown here.”

“Pfft. Just a setback.”

That almost set him off again, but he shook his head and snorted, sitting up, wiping his face. Emotions were stupid, and his head hurt.

For a minute, he wished Flower weren’t leaving today. But of course he was, and Geno had to go train in Moscow soon, and Sid... He missed home so much he ached with it, but going back meant…. Meant it was all real.

What a fucking stupid thing to think. He ran a hand through his hair, rubbed at his forehead. “I just don’t know.”

“Know what?”

Sid shrugged, comprehensively.

They sat, shoulders not quite touching, and Sid breathed, and listened to the breeze, the birds, Flower’s fingernail scratching back and forth on the fabric of his shorts.

“Okay,” Flower said, decisively. “Three things.”

Sid waited.

“First. The thrall thing. No, don’t wince, you big baby, just listen.” Sid glared, but kept waiting. “What did Geno say about it?”

“He said I didn’t… force him to do anything, but… I mean, it was really overwhelming, so.” Remembering, his stomach sank: “He said I ‘pushed,’ though, and—”

Flower cut him off, nodding. “Okay. Listen. You’ve got to knock first, right?”

“What?” Sid looked at him quizzically, and Flower met his eyes, and held them.

“Like this.” And kept holding them, and—

Oh.

 It… it _was_ like a knock. A check-in, a text before calling. Flower was… They were still—still here, still anchored. There were two doors: they each had one, solid, like adjoining hotel rooms, maybe. Sid wasn’t lost in some formless void, however lovely or fascinating.

“Right?”

“Flower, how—”

“Shh, now you try.”

Sid took a breath, and tried. _Knock-knock._

“Good, good. Nice and easy. And then,” Flower continued, “don’t just throw the door open. See?” He—eased the mental door open, just a bit, an invitation. “Try?”

Sid tried.

 

 

It’s leaning against a door frame and chatting across the threshold. It’s trailing his fingers in a pool instead of cannonballing in and flailing.

Flower’s mind is effervescent. Quick, flexible—shadows and light, fizzy like carbonation. Steely determination, and gleeful mischief, and kindness all the way down.

It’s _wonderful_.

Maybe he says that aloud? Flower’s laughter tickles in here, bubbly, disappears into dark depths like a fish.

 _Flower, I didn_ _’t know you could_

The ripple of a shrug. _Nobody does._

Oh, but… really? _Nobody?_ _Flower—_ Sid feels his own door swinging wider, then has a flash of panic.

And then—Flower pushing back against him: a hand firmly closing the door.

 

 

Sid blinked, and stammered, “Oh god, sorry.”

Flower waved it off, leaned forward so that his elbows were on his knees, his hands dangling between. “Well, needs practice, obviously. My _grand-m_ _ère_ taught me... I’m not that great, actually—it takes a lot of focus, for me. Only part fae, you know?” He shrugged. “Did it help?”

“Jesus, Flower, I— _yes_.” It was so much like being shown a drill or an exercise or a stretch—a million words might do it justice eventually, but it was so much more efficient, so much more _effective_ to see it, and then do it. He wished he could go back in, shove a river of gratitude at him. “Thank you.”

Flower shifted, maybe uneasily. “I didn’t know you could do this, friend, or I would have shown you before, you know.”

 _Even though you don_ _’t show anyone,_ Sid thought. God. “’Nobody’ though? Really?”

Flower didn’t pretend not to know what he was talking about. He shrugged again, dark eyes looking out across the grass. “My parents know. My sister. _Grand-m_ _ère_ showed both of us, when we were very small, just in case, but Marylène couldn’t do it at all. Nobody else. It’s so rare, and people get twitchy about it, even just for fae. And I’m really not _—_ adept. I’m not sure I even _could,_ _”_ he meshed his fingers together, “with anyone who isn’t….” He shrugged, lightly. “I haven’t tried. I don’t think about it, normally. A bit more since, y’know, April.”

Sid thought about apologizing for that, then told himself not to be stupid. “And Vero?”

Flower smiled, reflexively warm, but shook his head. “I know this sounds… but it never really occurred to me. When we met we were fifteen, and I had to ask Marylène to help me get her to talk to me, I didn’t want to… and then later we’d already talked about everything, about so much, but it never seemed important enough. It’s like,” he looked thoughtful, “like if I’d taken a few guitar lessons as a kid? I don’t think about it that much, it just gathers dust under my bed.” He cut a glance at Sid. “I know it’s not like that for you. I really just don’t—talk about it. Or do it.”

Sid raised an eyebrow. “Gee, Flower, I sure don’t know how that is. Avoiding talking about my supernatural problems.”

Flower dropped his head, laughing between his knees. “Yeah, alright. The point is—now you know what it feels like, somebody pushing back, yeah?” He shoved Sid’s shoulder. Sid nodded. “So no more worrying. You can’t _accidentally_ break down a door if someone is holding it closed.”

Well, maybe, Sid thought, but he did feel better. “I mean, I should still be careful.”

“Of course, of course, careful is good. And that’s number two. You should talk about it all more, idiot. With Geno. And,” he hesitated a moment, but then continued, “and really to someone else, too, I think.”

Sid remembered Geno, asking, _Sid, you talk to someone? At hospital, after?_ “You mean someone professional. That kind of talk.” Flower opened his mouth, but Sid cut him off. “Yeah, you’re right. I should.” It was time to try to act more like himself again. Maybe find out what that was, now. “I will. I’ll make some calls this afternoon.” Phone calls, ugh. He rubbed his forehead again. He’d been sitting too long in the sun, too, probably.

Flower nodded, watching him. “Good, good. And number three.” He caught Sid’s eye, briefly, then looked down, and turned up his wrist.

Someday, Sid’s friends would stop surprising him like this. Maybe.

“You can think about it,” Flower said, shrugging, not withdrawing his wrist. “This isn’t a one time offer. But if it helps.”

It was useless to keep pretending that it might not help at all, or to dwell on wishing that he didn’t have to do this every time: weigh the risk, the cost. It was pointless to wish that this wasn’t part of his life.

“Flower…” Talk more, he told himself. At least try. “Uh, what about Vero?” He should ask that, right? Please _god_ this wasn’t going to get suddenly, uncontrollably sexy, but it was still a, a fluid exchange, of sorts, and—

Flower grinned, and chuckled. “Sid. _This,_ she and I _have_ talked about. _She_ brought it up first.”

Sid swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. Okay, that was… Jesus. Okay. “How are you not worried?” he asked, almost plaintively.

“I know you, Sid.” He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “You probably measure somehow, eh. Do you set a timer?”

Sid looked away. “I uh. Count. The number of swallows.”

Flower bumped his shoulder. “Sure, makes sense.”

Okay then. Sid took his wrist, then paused. There was just no non-awkward way to handle this. Vampires were never this fucking ridiculous in the fucking movies.

“Alright, but I… I have to lick first.”

Flower looked like he was barely containing his laughter. Well, more than usual.

“Oh my god, just shut up,” Sid said, and did it, and didn’t think too much about how unbearably intimate it was—letting Sid put his _mouth_ on him.

Flower made a tiny, snorty sound—ticklish, Sid thought—but didn’t pull away, and then Sid bit. He drank, counting carefully, while Flower thumbed his phone, checking something, and absently leaned into Sid’s side.

Sid closed his eyes, feeling… something. Overwhelmed. Undeserving. Beholden. Warm, through and through.

Cautiously, he stopped after twenty swallows (not even a whole blood donation, he thought), waited a few seconds, then lifted his head.

Flower’s beloved, narrow face was just the same as usual, his dark eyes bright, and Sid didn’t want to kiss him any more than he normally did. Sid cleared his throat. “Are you alright?”

“Fine. Felt odd, but…” Flower peered at his wrist, touched the dark pink line there, looked up. “You?”

Sid smiled a little. “Getting there.”

 

##

 

Before Flower left that afternoon, he dug a blue velvet ring box out of his pocket, and held it out, grinning, to show Sid.

 

When Flower left that afternoon, Sid walked him to the door and, pausing, reached up and lightly rapped a knuckle on his forehead. “Knock-knock,” he said, and Flower laughed, and hugged him.

 

After Flower left that afternoon, the sound of his car fading in the distance, Sid found an enormous basket on his porch, piled high with soap, bubble bath, oils, and something called “Dream Cream”? And a card with TREAT YO SELF written in large letters. It smelled like somebody had dropped a bakery onto a citrus orchard and they’d both _exploded_ , and he had no idea how Flower had managed to keep it hidden there.

 

##

 

Sid hauled the basket inside (it must’ve weighed fifteen pounds), left it in his master bath, and dug out the brochures and phone numbers from the hospital. He made a few calls. He talked to a receptionist who made half the tension in his neck disappear simply by virtue of her warm, reassuring voice, and made an appointment. _To talk,_ he thought, only a little ruefully. He wrote a couple of brief but vital emails.

He was ready to be done with trying to pretend nothing had changed.

 

##

 

They decided to do a video call in the early evening—Sid knew Geno hated radio interviews, figured it was probably easier for him to have the body language and all that available. Mostly, he really just wanted to see Geno’s face. 

“Hey, there.”

“Hi, Sid.”

 God, it was so good to see him, his heavy eyebrows, eyes creased with a smile, tongue between his teeth, even through the occasionally choppy connection—and through a screen, Sid didn’t have to worry about meeting his eyes.

He was probably staring too much.

“Sorry, I’m not really great on calls.” 

Geno laughed. “It’s fine, nice to see you, too, Sid. How’s your day?”

Sid couldn’t stop smiling. “Good, it was good.” Big, but some of that was definitely waiting for face-to-face conversation. “Fine. What about you?”

“I’m good, good, was good day for knee work. I have time on ice this week.” He leaned his head on one hand, started to say something, stopped. Blurted, “So when we meet up again?” so eagerly that Sid couldn’t help laughing. Geno covered his face with a groan. “Sorry! Sorry, Sid. I’m not want push, want you to have all time you need. But—I’m not always most patient, you know? Sorry.”

“It’s fine, G. Sorry, I’m just trying to… work through some stuff.”

Geno nodded, willingly enough. “Okay. Want talk about?”

This would be so much easier in person. With the bond. Maybe. Or maybe harder, more distracting. Sid was sure the sight of Geno’s neck would definitely be even more distracting in person.

“It’s all just… an adjustment. And I’m feeling—”

“Yeah?”

“A little weird.” _Talking, Crosby, make a goddamn effort here._ “Possessive. About you. It might be the bond, I don’t know.”

“Like how?”

“Like.” God, could Sid even say this out loud? “Like I keep wanting to track you. By scent. Keep tabs, and I know that’s ridiculous—”

“You can do this? Is possible?” Geno didn’t look angry or creeped out, just curious.

“Well… I mean, maybe.” He was almost sure he could.

Geno nodded, humming thoughtfully. 

“It doesn’t bother you?”

Geno shrugged. “Is you, Sid. I’m know you’re not do. Unless I’m ask.”

“Unless you—” Sid needed to quit gaping.

Geno seemed half coy, half defiant. “Maybe I like.”

“You _like_ the idea of me following you around?”

Geno shrugged. “Don’t know yet. But… I like you. I like idea, you _want_ to follow me around.”

Oh. Well, okay, that wasn’t… terrible. “Sounds impractical,” Sid ventured, smiling. 

Geno looked sly. “Can always get drone, send to spy at my house.”

“Oh Jesus,” but he was laughing. He’d been disturbed, earlier, by how many stalker-ish ideas he’d had, just off the top of his head, but that hadn’t been one of them. “That is not good boyfriend behavior.”

Oops. Sid’s stomach did a little flip.

Geno said only, “Guess not,” but his grin said a lot more.

 

##

 

They agreed to get together on Friday. It was only three days away, right? Geno had stuff to do, Sid had research…

 **Tell me not to text you more than five times a day,** Sid sent him that night, stuffing down his goofy grin as if anyone were around to see.

 ** _Can_** ** _’t promise ))))_** was the only reply.

 

##

 

Tuesday evening, Sid got a text from Flower: **_Tomorrow is D-Day!!_** And a ring emoji.

Before Sid could find that exploding striped confetti horn thing to reply, another text came through.

**_I told Vero about the door things, friend_ **

Oh. Oh, wow— **Yeah?**

**_She says I am a very foolish man, and she hopes I will show her inside my diabolical mind soon_ **

**You** **’re both lucky,** Sid sent. **And good luck tomorrow.**

Flower replied with a flurry of smiley faces, and then— **_Knock-knock_**

Sid grinned. **Knock-knock.**

 

##

 

The next day, Sid got some email replies.

 _Hey squid,_ said his sister Taylor’s. _About time you said hi. What_ _’s up?_

The travel agent’s listed options for flights to Halifax in the next couple of weeks.

Jagr sent him a couple of links, including one to a private, vampires-only website with a brief section on “the rare phenomenon of bonding.” It said that bonding was linked to thrall, but that there were a lot of compatibility factors. The article used the word “symbiote” a lot, which Sid found kind of weird, but it did confirm what Geno had said: the voluntary element. It also said that the bond was “said to be for monitoring the safety of all parties during feeding.”

Sid wasn’t going to break out the champagne or anything, but… he let himself hope, a little.

 

##

 

Sid thought he was doing fine, not being creepy, giving it time. He thought he was doing just fine, up until Thursday, at the rink, when he crept out to the bench after his appointment to watch Geno skate.

He hadn’t told Geno that he was coming in, and with the wards in place, he couldn’t smell him out there. They were meeting up tomorrow, that was the plan… but Geno’s face lit up like New Year’s to see him, till Sid had to look away to stop grinning like a total idiot. Geno didn’t come over, he just kept going on the drills with Stew, but with maybe a slight flair. As if he needed it.

Sid had always loved to watch Geno skate—who wouldn’t? Even at far from fully-recovered, Geno was a joy to see on the ice. All the way up until Sid had to watch him take a bad fall that split his lip and made him get up and limp off the rink.

Sid didn’t follow him right away, though Geno had looked his direction as he left down the tunnel. He was busy trying to get a hold on the slashing, urgent, internal _howling_ that said _grabsniffshakenowminemineMINE._ Holy hell. A distant part of him was honestly startled. The rest was just trying to keep it together in public.

After an unknown number of minutes, Sid got up, slowly and deliberately, and shamelessly followed Geno’s scent back, and down to the locker room.

A couple of rookies who Sid had only met once or twice were there, dressed and talking. Geno was at his stall, pulling a black shirt on over his head, and scowling and muttering to himself.

Sid stood in the doorway, watching, holding himself back. He looks like he’s fine, calm _down,_ he tried to tell the back of his brain. To no avail. The shirt hung on Geno oddly, and then Sid realized it was _his_ shirt, the one Geno had worn away from his house on Monday, and Jesus, he should not be feeling like this. “Are you okay?” he managed.

Geno grunted.

Sid shouldn’t be feeling like this. He shouldn’t say anything. Geno was obviously frustrated, maybe embarrassed, whatever. But. But the back of his brain _howled,_ and, and… he _was_ still the captain, and… He tried to use a reasonable tone. “G, You have to be more careful out there—”

Geno snapped at him, “You think I’m not know this?”

“If you know it, then act like it.”

“Oh shit,” muttered one of the rookies to the other, too low for human ears, “captain voice,” and the two of them cleared out. Distantly, Sid thought it was uncalled for.

Whatever. It was just the two of them now, and Sid stood there, hands clenched. The howling felt desperate, unsettling, ugly even. Maybe Geno wouldn’t like seeing it in action.

Geno was glaring. “You blame me for mistake?”

“No, of course not. I just want you to be _safe,_ and—”

Geno huffed impatiently, and sat forward on the edge of his stall, tying his shoes. “Knee is fine. Stop act like I’m break just from little trip, Sid.”

Sid stepped closer and lowered his voice, trying to keep it steady. “The team needs you, Geno, god knows when _I_ _’m_ going to get to play again, they _need_ you, you have to—”

Geno stood, gesticulating wildly. “I’m not _have_ to do anything, Sid. When you understand I _want_ to help team, of course want to get better? Sick of sit around, waiting, waiting, and soon I’m leave for home, and I’m just want to _help_ , and—”

Oh. “God, Geno, I know that, I—” He looked up and, shit. Geno's lip was split, and the brief yelling had made it open up again. Shit, shit, shit. He couldn't even really hear what Geno was saying now, something about _I know I_ _’m not HAVE to do anything_. The scent of it made his throat ache. 

Geno paused a moment. Shit, did he notice Sid looking at his mouth.

There was barely any blood, it was nothing, this whole argument was nothing, he should go, he—he couldn't stop staring. He stepped in, closer and closer, and Geno leaned back against the wall, watching him back, swallowing.

“Is your knee really all right,” Sid said, but he was still looking at Geno’s mouth.

Geno nodded slowly. Then he said, quietly, “Would feel better….”

“What?”

“Is sore,” Geno said, so softly. “If you—” he touched the split in his lip, “would feel better.”

“Would it.” Was Sid still talking, he wasn’t even sure at this point.

Geno slowly, slowly put out his hand. There was blood on his first two fingers, from where he'd just touched his mouth. "Yes," he said. Whispered. He touched them, softly, to Sid's lips, and Sid couldn't stop himself from putting out his tongue, licking his lips automatically, and god he'd missed this.

Sid leaned in, craned his neck up. Geno stayed perfectly still, watching, his head tipped down.

Geno's cheek was warm where Sid's nose gently brushed it. He angled his head, put out his tongue and touched it to the split on Geno's lip. Geno's lips were motionless, rough, parted a bit. Sid swiped his tongue across the bottom one, under it, catching on rough, dried blood. He felt Geno twitch slightly, and he just—he caught Geno's jaw in both hands, in one quick movement, and sucked his lower lip into his mouth.

Geno’s breath stuttered against Sid’s cheekbone, warm, humid, helpless, and the bond flared up, with relief and heat and exhilaration. Geno grabbed Sid’s elbows and pulled him closer, and Sid could taste the tang of blood, and smell his sweat, and—  

Sid pressed him into the wall, Geno squirming against him, and kissed him and kissed him, till he finally had to break away to breathe for a second. Jesus Christ, that shirt—Geno _smelled_ like him, like both of them, and there was no way Sid was going to survive this.

“Just—” Geno was gasping a little, wriggling, arching his neck, god, “just do, Sid, here, just—” He broke into Russian again, but his voice was aching, and through the bond Sid could hear _please please again I want it I want you god just let me have this you stubborn asshole I need your mouth on me Sid please—_

Under the rushing, under the satisfied growling in the back of his head, Sid tried to think something vague about how strong the bond was getting. Whatever.

“Geno, shh,” Sid murmured, kissing along his jaw, “someone’s going to hear.”

“I am most quiet,” Geno said unsteadily, and then gasped loudly when Sid licked up his throat.

“Fucking liar,” Sid said, and nosed into the curve of his neck, breathing deeply, before he moved reluctantly back. Not now, he thought sadly. 

He caught Geno’s eye. “Just…” Sid kissed him again, more softly. “Just this.” Geno blinked at him. “Just this, right now, okay?”

“Sid.” Geno’s voice cracked, and Sid could feel the bond welling up, brimful and trembling. Then Geno was pulling him close, kissing him and kissing him, and it was at least as good as being curled up on the couch together, lapping at his wrist. It was better.

 

##

 

After not nearly long enough, they finally had to stop kissing in the locker room, or else risk some serious public indecency.

Sid was panting. “Come over tonight. Okay? Tonight?” _Or maybe this afternoon_ _…_

Geno nodded and nodded, pupils blown wide.

Stepping back felt impossible, but Sid’s life was full of impossible things lately, and somehow he managed to do it.

“Oh, shit, I have to meet with Jen, about the children’s charity stuff, till five,” he said, realizing, frustrated. He shook his head. “Whatever. Just, just come over? Let yourself in whenever, I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?”

Geno’s chest was heaving a little, and he nodded again. “Yes, good.”

“Good, good.” Jesus, he was looking at Geno’s mouth again, focused in on it. He was never going to get out of here.

Geno’s mouth smiled. “Okay, go now. See you soon, is only couple of hours.”

Sid closed his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I think you mean forever. Bye,” and fled the room, before he could get embarrassed or grab Geno again.

 

##

 

Time crawled by, but finally, finally, Sid was out, free, driving home at an incredibly controlled pace because honestly the alternative was probably fiery death by the side of the road, or at the very least a serious speeding ticket. And he could afford the fine, but not the time it would take, waiting and waiting. So. Controlled pace it was.

Geno’s car was there already, and his stomach flipped, and then he went inside and Geno was in the kitchen, dressed in a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and intentionally-ratty jeans, tending a small saucepan on the stovetop, and sniffing a spoonful of— 

“Is that blood?”

Geno’s cheeks were a little pink, but he stuck out his chin. “Yes. Is synth.”

“Oh.” For a second, Sid’s heart fell. Maybe Geno was saying he didn’t want.… Then he shook himself, firmly, and it worked for once. Just ask, he told himself. “Okay, uh. Why?”

Geno stood, fiddling with the spoon for a second. “I’m know you're worry,” he said, slowly. “Worry a lot.”

“Yeah.”

“Worry about hurt me, about go too far, all this.”

Sid closed his eyes. “Yeah.”

“And... you should be worry." Sid looked up sharply. “Not—” Geno huffed, impatient with language. Sid stepped nearer, hesitantly, and sat at the corner of the granite-topped island, offering his hand. But Geno rolled his eyes, and smirked, batting it away. “Nope, lazy. Need just talk sometimes, you know?” 

Which, well, he had a point.

“So. You should worry, but not—not because I’m not trust you. I’m know—Sid, I’m _know_ ,” he looked like he wanted to take Sid’s hand really badly, but he stirred the saucepan instead, “I’m know you. Know you’re safe. 

“But part of you’re safe is because you’re _careful_ , and I’m want help. Not fair for you, have to be careful every time for both. I want...” Sid could see his throat bob in a swallow. “I want lot of things, Sid. But if you can be..." He groped for a second, then swore, and pulled out his phone. “I’m look up before,” he muttered, peering, then, “ha! Restraint. If you can be restraint—” 

“‘Show restraint,’” Sid said, faintly, feeling his ears getting warm. “Or have, ‘have restraint.’”

Geno nodded, easily. “You can show restraint, I can show restraint, too.” 

“Wow, I... Jesus, G. You’ve really thought about this.” It wasn’t _surprising_ really. Geno was a thoughtful guy, generally. He just… _he_ _’s been thinking about_ me, said a tiny voice. Not a surprise. Just. A lot. 

“Yes. I’m think lots, want do right.” Geno glanced at him sidelong. “Think about other kind restraint, too, but we talk about some other time.”

“Oh my god,” Sid groaned, one hand over his eyes, while Geno snickered, gleefully.

Once he finally quit, Geno looked serious again, met Sid’s eyes. “Want do right.” He smiled just a little, shyly. “Be good boyfriend.”

Sid let himself hold his gaze, and nodded. “Me too, G.”

“Good.” Geno turned away, stirred the pan, and then poked around in Sid’s cupboards. “So I’m think, I make this, not so thirsty later, yeah? Safer.”

“Yeah, that's a good thought, G.”

Geno pulled down a bottle of something—was it cinnamon? “Also, you do wrong. Microwave no good, heat is uneven, is better this way.” He added a little of the spice to the pan. “Make nice.”

“But you can’t cook.”

Geno looked at him pityingly. “Is not cook, Sid, is _stir_.”

“Well. Just so long as you’re using a _wooden_ spoon, I guess," Sid said, sly, and Geno said, in outraged tones, “One time! Who is care about non-stick pans, Sid? Very boring. I'm use my brain for other things, important hockey things.” It had definitely not been just the one time, and Sid was laughing, his forehead on the cool granite. “Not appreciate all my hard work! So much stir! I tell world, Sidney Crosby most ungrateful, most—”

Sid slid off the stool and kissed him quiet against the counter. 

 

##

 

It turned out that Geno had ordered pizza for dinner. Sid brought the two boxes into the living room, where Geno said, sadly, “No mango, sorry, only pineapple.” 

Sid knew he was only encouraging these shenanigans by laughing, but he couldn’t help it. He was so goddamn happy right now.

They ate for a few minutes, sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch in that silence, close enough for their arms to press together. Sid ate too much, and drank his synth. Cinnamon wasn’t bad.

“Ready talk more?”

Sid didn’t really want to talk. Or, he did, but he mostly wanted to get his hands on Geno again. Really thoroughly, this time. But he nodded.

Some of that must’ve come through the bond, because Geno smiled ruefully and shook his head. “Get business done,” he said firmly.

Sid was going to drown in fondness. “Sure, G.”

“Sorry I’m not talk about before. I’m think you not want to talk about—” he waved a hand, hooked two fingers near his mouth, “vampire stuff.” 

Sid snorted. “Well, no, you were right about that.” 

Geno nodded. “Maybe I should ask more. I’m think… I’m afraid to push.” He rubbed the back of his neck. _At least with talking._ “Not want you tell me, done, finished, go away now.”  

Sid didn’t know if it had been as precarious as all that, but it’d probably felt that way. He felt a stab of guilt, and he asked, “Why did you offer, really? I know you said….”

“Not believe me, Sid?” But Geno didn’t really sound mad or hurt, and the bond flickered with amusement.

“I believe you, but….”

Geno was looking at him, more somber than Sid had maybe ever seen. “Not sure you do, Sid.”

“Oh come on, G—” Sid began, but Geno was already shaking his head.

“Not like that,” he said. “Not think I’m lie or something.”

“Of course not—” Sid could feel something, could feel Geno feeling something big, complicated, and he was a little wary. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Hm.” Geno seemed to let it go after a second. “Well. First time then. I’m worry about you, head mess, plus vampire stuff, alone in house. I’m think, I can help, no problems. Even though it’s you, and I’m have some… feelings already.” The bond warmed with some of those feelings.

It was odd, listening to Geno continue to talk, and also feeling the bond punctuating it. “I’m a little… miscalculate.” Wryly, _and wryly._ “First day after—I go home and say, oh no, what I do.” _Remembered chagrin, head in hands._ “It’s been long time for me. Forgot how… much I like.” _A brief sense-image of teeth at his throat, and a ropy twisting of lust._ “Also, it’s you.” _Warmth, echoing longing, down through seasons and years._ “Feel a little bad, but I decide… you need, and you not have to know.”  

Sid sent his own ruefulness back. “Ha. That sounds familiar.” 

“Not sure I’m really forget, you know. Mostly….”

A bond-pulse, and Sid matched a word to it. “Denial?”

Geno nodded. “Yeah. But I’m really want. And also I’m really want to help.”

He said it lightly, but the feeling behind the word “help” was intense, twisting like an old tree root. Sid wasn’t sure what to do with that. But it felt like something he should… do something with.

“Geno.” He caught his eye. “You know you don’t have to—”

“I _know,_ ” said Geno, impatiently. “I’m tell you, I’m _want—_ _”_

“Okay but… you don’t have to _help_ for me to…” _Feel this,_ he thought, and let it surge at him: _lightness, want, admiration, a glow of affection that was only getting brighter and brighter_ _… ‘just this, just this, okay?’_

“God, _Sid._ ” Geno put his face down on his knees, and leaned into Sid’s side. _Stop, don_ _’t stop, god, Sid…_

Jesus, this stuff was intense. Sid wanted to kiss him so, so badly. But—

He shifted away, just enough to break the skin contact. A breather. “So. Business?”

Geno swallowed, and nodded. “Yes, business.” He dragged over his messenger bag and pulled out a handful of little bottles, started lining them up on the edge of the coffee table.

“I’m think you feel better, if you know more about potions,” he said. “How they work.”

“For sure.” Sid picked one up and examined it: a little dark cut-glass bottle with a waxed stopper, with a Cyrillic label. He really should have asked about this sooner, he knew, and he listened carefully while Geno explained about the different varieties, one for after a feeding, maintenance ones for between. Flower had been right: one was called Bloodheart.

“Geno,” Sid said, slowly. “Should… should you really be using these every day? What about side effects?”

Geno’s jaw was set already. Honestly, Sid suspected it was a reflex at this point; Geno liked to get his way. “Is very safe, Sid. Made for humans, because of red-cap plague back in ‘60s. Anyway, what else we do? It’s not fast cure, but is help, right?”

Sid wasn’t looking to fight, but. “Yeah, it does, G, but—but that’s so _not_ my priority.” Not even close. Geno still looked mulish, and Sid was going to spell this out, in any language necessary, till he _got it_ , the stubborn asshole. “I need _you_ to be safe. And anyway, it doesn’t all have to be on you. I mean, when—”

 Sid stopped, abruptly. That’s right. He hadn’t told him about this yet. He’d been waiting to see him in person, and then he’d been so happy and distracted... About Monday, and Flower, and… he hadn’t even thought about how Geno would react.

The issue wasn’t physical safety, diseases or whatever. That new site had said that vampires didn’t contract or spread blood-borne diseases, or any others, for that matter, for a bunch of speculated reasons that seemed to boil down to “because magic,” as far as Sid could tell. The issue was—he _hadn_ _’t even thought_ about how Geno would react.

 _You_ _’d think,_ he lectured himself, distantly, over the sudden twisting of his stomach, _that you_ _’d have found time to worry about this, of all things._

Sid cleared his throat. “Geno, I uh, I need to tell you something.”

“Yeah?” Geno offered a hand, but Sid couldn’t… He couldn’t accept that right now. He wasn’t even sure he could say it.

The only way out is through, Sid told himself, resentfully. Goddamnit.

“Flower came over on Monday, after you left.”

Geno nodded. “Okay?”

“We were talking, and I ended up telling him about—what had happened, with us, and.” Sid swallowed. “And uh, he offered.” He rested his left hand on his knee, palm up, and rubbed his wrist. “And I… I did. Drank from him. I…” Be honest. “I’m not exactly sorry, but I _am_ sorry that I didn’t think to talk to you about it first.” A wriggle of shame. Maybe he couldn’t do this. Maybe he was the worst boyfriend ever.

“Sid.” Geno’s big hand slid over his, palm to palm, and squeezed. Sid could feel… jealousy, yes, and also sheepishness about that, and also… happiness, clear and sharp, at… Jesus. At Sid being cared for, being loved.

“Glad he can help you, Sid,” Geno said, deliberately soft.

Sid let his head droop, let his forehead touch the back of Geno’s hand, on Sid’s knee. Let relief flood through him, loosen the words in his throat. “I’m so glad, G, god. If you’d… I’d… god.” He almost laughed with the relief. “And yeah, he really did help. I mean, there was that, but also—Flower can do the, the thrall thing. A little bit, in a fae way, I guess, but he showed me, it was super helpful—”

 Geno’s hand tightened on his, and there was a—a flash flood of emotion: a snarl, of jealousy at least five times stronger than before, and shame, and pain, throbbing green and maroon—

“Hey, hey.”

“Sorry, Sid, I shouldn’t—”

We have got to stop apologizing for our emotions, Sid thought. “No, no, Jesus, don’t… I’m sorry, I really should have thought—”

Geno was turning his face away. “I want you can learn things you need, feel better—sorry, I’m just—” _jealous, sad, ashamed, wistful, lonely—_

“Hey.” Fuck this. Sid climbed over into Geno’s lap, straddling his legs. He took Geno’s face in his hands, cupping his jaw, and pressed their foreheads together. “Hey.” Sid just breathed for a long moment, eyes closed, just felt it all with him, just sent a steady _I_ _’m here, I’m here, I’m here._

Geno took a shuddery breath, and the flood eased. “Sorry,” he whispered. _You_ _’re here?_

Sid shook his head. _I am so here._ “Hey,” he said, and lifted Geno’s face, and looked into his eyes. “With Flower? It wasn’t like this.” He held the gaze, locked, and—knocked. Tapped, really. _Knock-knock?_

 _Oh._ Geno blinked. _Hello? Come in?_

 

 

Geno doesn’t know about the door thing yet, but he has one, and Sid can show him how it works. It seems like the default of the bond is more or less closed, while the default of thrall is open, so you have to adjust…. It’s okay. They’ll practice.

Right now—right now it’s wading together in the surf, warm salt water swirling around your ankles, your calves, your knees. Sand shifting and unsteady under your feet, but Sid thinks he can handle it.

 _It wasn_ _’t like this_ , he says, thinks, again.

The water swirls up, for a moment, then settles back. _So what_ was _it like?_ Geno is a little wistful, but also honestly curious, it seems.

Sid tries to reflect a little of it: that effervescence, the flickering shadow and light, the kindness. _Like that._

 _Sounds nice._   

 _It was, it was pretty amazing._ Sid’s smiling helplessly. _I mean, I love Flower—_

 _So do I._ Geno’s words are so, so warm, and smirking with recalled pranks.

 _But_ _… it wasn’t like this._ Sid considers. _It wasn_ _’t worse, either… just different._

 _What_ _’s_ this _like?_

Maybe the question should be confusing, but it’s not, and Sid’s suddenly absolutely alight with curiosity. _What_ _’s it like for you?_ Sid knows these mental images are only that, images, and that they’re _his_. What does Geno see?

A pause, and then Geno sends him a series of impressions: an undersea grotto, with light rippling and refracting all around; a chill autumn breeze, a promise of first snow, and you have a _sled_ ; a sharp, focused presence on the ice, waiting for you to be open, waiting to pass to you.

_Wow, really?_

Geno is all amusement. _Yes, really. What... what about me?_ It’s almost shy. 

 _Today you_ _’re a beach._

 _A beach??_  

 _Sure._ Sid sends: the warm water, the soothing rush of waves, perfect sun-heat on your back, salt-smell heavy and rich in your nose, and all interlaced with _Geno_ —expansive, warm, welcoming, funny…

Geno is delighted, but: _Sid, you don_ _’t even like the beach._

 _Well...  It_ _’s like…_ Sid doesn’t know what it’s like, but: _It_ _’s the only beach I’ve ever really loved visiting._

Geno’s laughter bubbles around him, warm and bright, and Sid wants to stay here forever.

 _Nothing_ _’s like this,_ he says, and closes his eyes.

 

 

“Nothing’s like this,” Sid said, aloud, and kissed him. The bond was zinging, vibrating warmth and want across it, and Sid couldn’t _take_ it anymore, he had to, he needed— 

Geno kissed back, hungrily, his face tipped up, his big hands pulling Sid closer, one up under his shirt, one gripping Sid’s ass and pulling him in.

Sid fought for breath. “Just, just take off your fucking shirt already, G.”

“‘Already’?” Geno said, through a grin. “So impatience.”

“You’ve been driving me _crazy_ for _weeks_ with your fucking v-necks, and—” Sid’s fingers fumbled on the buttons, fucking shit, and Geno’s fingers were just getting in the way.

Geno half-laughed, breathlessly. “This not v-neck. Is very nice shirt. Has buttons, even.”

“Oh my _god._ ” Sid growled, flipped Geno around and pushed him down on his back, pinning his hands to the carpet. He could almost-see Geno’s heart thumping in his throat, feel the bond shiver, see Geno’s eyes wide and darkening, smell him, excited and still not even a little afraid.  

“Oh, shirt is problem?” said Geno with the tip of his tongue between his teeth, glee in his eyes. He hooked a leg around behind Sid and pulled him closer.

“ _You_ _’re_ a problem,” Sid mock-snarled, and kissed him.

That lasted a while, hot and insistent, until Geno said, panting, “Shirt, though,” and Sid grumbled, and let go of his wrists, sitting up enough to tug at the shirt-tails.

“You can rip,” Geno said, panting and pushing up on his elbows.

Sid closed his eyes and shuddered all over. Yeah, he probably could, but… but here was Geno, all laid out, his dick hard in his jeans, his face flushed already, and Sid wanted to _torment_ him.

“Nah,” he said, eyes on Geno’s face, his mouth, and Sid slowly slid the bottom button from its hole, just above the waist of his jeans, and skimmed a finger across, under his navel.

Geno sucked in a breath, but said nothing, just watched, his gaze hot and glassy, as Sid undid the next button, and the next, and the next. Slowly, so slowly that Sid was shaking a little, all the way up, and then he folded the cloth back, and then bent low enough to brush his lips and breath up again, up the middle of Geno’s belly, his chest, over his quivering skin.

Geno groaned. Sid glanced up, and fuck, Geno’s head was tilted back, and he was not going to just lunge in, he was not. He put his forehead down on the center of Geno’s chest, breathing, a hand sweeping up and down Geno’s side, and said, “Come up to my room.”

Geno raised his head. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah.”

There was a burst through the bond of—well, of pure pornography, in vivid, discrete flashes: the curve of Sid’s shoulders, bent over him; a spark of friction; Geno’s neck arched, and Sid’s teeth scraping across it; Geno’s mouth on Sid’s hip; Sid’s fingers pressing into—

“Jesus Christ.” They’d never make it to the bed at this rate.

Geno sent a small, bashful shrug, but he let Sid give him a hand up off the floor.

At this rate they’d never even make it up the _stairs._ Geno left his shirt on the living room floor, and following his broad, naked back up onto the dim second story… Even _not_ touching Geno, there were too many layers of input. He smelled hot and eager and Sid’s mouth went dry at the sight of it all, muscle and skin and his shoulder blades moving underneath, his waist, jeans low on his hips, his absolutely fucking phenomenal ass, and— You have seen this before, Sid tried to remind himself. Like every single day at work? Remember? But there was no part of him that cared about that.

And then they were finally at his room, but they stalled out just inside the door, Geno pressing him up against the wall, pulling Sid’s black polo shirt up over his head, unbuttoning his khakis, then getting distracted kissing him again, and Sid couldn’t complain about any of it, especially about getting his hands on Geno’s bare back, their chests pressed together, god.

Sid could feel—Geno kept stroking and stroking his skin, didn’t want to take his hands off Sid; the undercurrent of dizzy want and pleasure and disbelief, like this couldn’t possibly be real, and—

 _Come here._ There was an armchair in here, a few feet from the door—a few feet nearer than the bed, and Sid walked him backward, pushed him to sitting in it, because he wanted him sitting up, he wanted to be able to— He slid to his knees between Geno’s thighs.

Geno made a kind of squeak. Sid looked up, and paused, his hands stilling on Geno’s fly. Geno shook his head, only in disbelief, almost laughing.

Sid wrestled Geno’s terrible jeans down, all the way off, and it was stupidly awkward, and Geno was chuckling just a little, and god, he was naked now.

Sid ran his palms up Geno’s legs and looked into his eyes. _Okay?_

“Eyes,” Geno murmured, touching Sid’s face.

“Hm?”

Geno pushed an image at him: Hazel sparking with gold, glowing—and helpless, drowning desire. Wow.

"Pull my hair," Sid ordered, and then nuzzled into the crease of Geno's thigh.

“Bossy.” Geno was obviously trying to sound nonchalant about it, but then Sid was licking up the smooth skin of his inner thigh, feeling it twitch. Geno whimpered.

He ran his hands up and down Geno's ankles and calves, palms catching on rough hair, and kissed up the inside of his thigh some more, and then he nosed in under his balls, inhaling, and up, letting his cheek brush softly over the side of Geno’s very hard dick.

He licked briefly up it, and Geno gave a muffled groan. 

“So. Which one first, G?”

One second of silence, and then, “Oh my—” Geno broke into Russian, obviously cursing, and Sid couldn’t quite follow it through the bond, but it seemed similar to the last time.

Sid just smirked and asked, silently, _Well?_

 _Shut up, you asshole, I can_ _’t_ decide _, I—_ the frantic tirade dissolved as Sid got his mouth over Geno’s dick.

He hadn’t done this for a while, but he hadn’t entirely lost the knack. And it was fucking great—Geno’s cock full and heavy against his tongue, the rich, musky smell of him, the bond throbbing with pleasure and _want._ Sid’s dick ached against his fly; he had to take a second to open it and press one hand there _._

After a minute, Geno finally put his hands on Sid’s head, combing fingers through his hair, rubbing them into his scalp. Sid just barely scraped his teeth up his cock, eyes on Geno’s face, and Geno groaned and tightened his fingers. Sid hummed, pleased, and then pulled off and bit into Geno’s thigh.

He was good at this now—controlling the depth. He could _feel_ the pulse of the vein here, tempting, but this time he kept it shallow, enough to suck slow mouthfuls while he stroked Geno’s cock with one hand, but not enough to spurt or flow dangerously heavily when he pulled off and switched back to—

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Geno wailed, and Sid held his hips down and was very careful with his fangs.

He went back to Geno’s thigh, god, it was so good, smooth and perfect down his throat, he just— There was a small jolt through the bond, and Sid looked up, panting a bit, and followed Geno’s gaze.

There was a little blood on his dick, and Sid could feel Geno think, surprisingly clearly, _oh shit, I_ _’m fucked, I shouldn’t, why is that so fucking hot_.

Sid ran his tongue along his teeth, licked the corner of his mouth, slowly, feeling Geno’s eyes drawn by the motion. Sid lowered his head again, still watching, and lapped along the cut.

He closed his eyes, followed along the line of the bond, till he found that spot again, the one with the not-exactly-dials. Checking in: _safe, good, yes._ He felt Geno’s heartbeat, as if in his own throat, strong and quick and thrilling. 

 _What does it feel like, G,_ he asked, and sucked again.

Geno seemed beyond words now, but he sent a flow of something euphoric, a little drugged. It was unreal, Sid thought, how could he—

 _You_ _’re fucking amazing,_ Sid sent, fiercely, wonderingly, and sucked his dick again.

Geno moaned, and arched, coming, and Sid swallowed and swallowed, one hand on his abdomen, Geno’s heartbeat pounding and then slowing in his head.

Sid finally pulled off, and started to softly lick the dripping blood off Geno’s inner thigh. His brain felt fuzzy with arousal, hot and desperate, and he couldn’t _think_.

“Fuck, Sid—” Geno was dragging him up, and, Jesus, _kissing_ him, tonguing into Sid’s mouth extravagantly, and Sid’s fangs hadn’t even gone down yet. Sid could feel him tasting blood and come, and _liking_ it. Fucking fuck.

Geno’s hand was sliding into Sid’s boxers, wrapping around his dick, pulling it out and jerking it, hot and dry but somehow perfect. Sid leaned against the arm of the chair, and on Geno’s shoulder, and _writhed_ against him.

“Come on, Sid,” Geno purred, lazy, replete, indulgent, and tipped his head to one side. _Again,_ he sent _._

 _Fuck._ And Sid shuddered and came all over him.

 

##

 

They managed to clean off and stumble over to the bed once Sid stopped shaking.

They lay facing each other, naked and curled, not quite touching. Sid was kinda overloaded, just in general. Geno obviously wanted to touch him again, still, but was holding back.

Sid could hardly believe—and even though they _weren_ _’t_ touching, Geno apparently could still read his face.

“You surprised? You think I’m not want this with you?”

“Well. But every second?” 

“Doesn’t have to be every second, Sid. Look at us, we cope, right now.”

Sid couldn’t help smiling. Geno smiled back, then stroked a finger over the back of Sid’s hand briefly, and said, plaintively, _Cuddle?_

“Soon, promise.” Sid wasn’t actually still out of breath, but he _felt_ out of breath, felt like he was gasping. “Just give me a minute.”

Geno’s expression turned smug.

“Oh, shut up.”

“I’m most quiet.” Geno blushed when Sid raised an eyebrow. Sid looked forward to proving that wrong, again, just give him an hour or two.

For now— “Is your thigh alright?” Sid hadn’t been the most attentive there at the end.

Geno nodded, tracing it with his fingers. “Best chomp ever,” he said, solemnly, and Sid cracked up. He took Geno’s hand, and Geno practically glowed over the bond, wriggly-grinning-pleased to make Sid laugh.

Sid was gone, so very gone. He wanted this forever.

Ugh. _What are we going to do._ “When do you leave?”

Geno stirred, unhappily. “One more week.”

“Yeah. I need to get my ticket, but about a week for me, too.” 

Geno sighed gustily. “Worst,” he grumbled.

Sid squeezed his hand, swallowing. _Worst, worst, worst._ He had to try to be practical. “Are we going to have to deal with, I don’t know, bond withdrawal symptoms or something?” Sid hadn’t seen anything about that on the site. 

“Don’t know. Can ask around if you want.” 

“Around?”

Geno rolled his eyes. “My ex.” 

“Ex-sana,” Sid said in a stage-whisper, and giggled.

“Terrible, terrible,” grumbled Geno. “I take last pizza now, you deserve.”

That was fair. “It probably won’t be too bad, though.” He hoped it wouldn’t be bad for Geno. Sid would look around some more, see if there was more information….

“Sid.” Geno was looking down at their hands, but broadcasting determination. “When you need drink from other people—”

“I don’t know about _need_ —”

Exasperation. “Come on, Sid.”

“Geno—”

“I’m need you healthy,” Geno said. He tapped Sid’s forehead. “Team needs you, too.”

“Geno, even if—” An impatient shove through the bond. “Okay, okay, you’re okay with it, I believe you. But…” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can do that. Ask people to do that.” _It_ _’s too much, too much for a—_

Geno flared with dismay, and mirrored back at him: that rotten loathing, rank, worse than the most foul locker-room stench. It was pretty awful.

 _Please, Sid, please,_ and the worst thing was the way Geno felt _helpless_ , the way he knew this wasn’t something he could just fix. _Please, don_ _’t. Don’t._

Sid closed his eyes, and breathed. He thought about his family. About Geno, Flower and Vero, Mario and Nathalie, Tanger and Duper and Kuni and Staalsy and all the guys, his friends back home, even Jen and Dana and the staff, even kind fans and strangers, even that warm-voiced receptionist…. He thought about, maybe, living without that rotten stench.

 _I_ _’ll try,_ he said. _I_ _’m going to talk to somebody, and I’m going to try._

 _Good,_ said Geno, fierce with relief.

Sid rolled into Geno’s arms and kissed him, long and soft, thumbs tracing along his jaw.

But. “The site I saw said that bonds can fade over time, like you said. But it didn’t say how much time.” Sid hid his face against Geno’s shoulder. “I guess it depends.”

Geno was radiating warmth: skin, bond, breath, everywhere. “Maybe.”

He made himself say it, out loud. “What if it breaks.”

Geno rolled him over, looked him in the eye. Shrugged. “Then we make again.”

 _Oh._ Sid let a smile sneak across his face. “Yeah,” he said. “Just a setback.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> [final edit: 6/28/18, I am CUT OFF.]
> 
> Come say hello on tumblr! I’m a co-mod on [knifeshoeoreofight](http://knifeshoeoreofight.tumblr.com), or you can talk to me on my fic blog [werebeary](http://werebeary.tumblr.com).


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